Reaction
by Happys Hitwoman
Summary: Usually accompanies an 'action', though not always in that order. Tig Trager's about to find out the consequences of that. 'Bridge' story to'The Garden Of Evil'
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Yes, I'm coming out of hiaitus, but only for a bit. This was the remnants of what I had planned for the end of The Garden Of Evil to segue into a potential exploration of Jax taking over, his plans for the club and Tig's dealing with it all. This will be a very short story - five chapters possible with them being longer installments- and will move fast with a lot of action. I already have half of chapter 2 written and the last three all mapped out, so should be short and sweet. Since the main players have already been established in my previous installments, no need to get into a lot of wordy detail and subplots. My non-writing life is getting busy and my business is rolling right along. This is going to be gritty, harsh and a tad violent. I may take creative licensing regarding 'street biz', but attention to MC authenticity, rules and regs remain intact. **

**I want to keep this short as my goal is to have it all posted in it's entirety before th S5 premier because I'm also going to explore my take on how the Tig/Damon Pope sitch might work out. The usual cast of characters are in play, but because this is mainly Tig-centric (with a dose of Hap & Amanda as they play into this) supporting characters will not overwhelm. **

**And - yes...Miss Daisy McKay plays into this as well. How much? Read on and you'll see as I take on unfamiliar waters and delve into the psyche of Tig Trager. I hope I do the canon character justice.**

**P.S. - thanks to Verda Napoli whose PM to me brought me 'out of the writing closet'! Okay, this will be the longest A/N so...onward!**

Chapter 1

The constantly ticking clock was a reminder.

Each graceful sweep of the minute hand pushed the day closer to an end. Passing days which turned into passing weeks. The consumption of time eating up the last shred of the present before it heaved out the future. Tig Trager had no use for watches or clocks as their only purpose was a reminder that his present situation may be consumed when the future took hold.

The current, but welcomed lull in the club allowed him to bury himself in the garage – away from the clubhouse and what it may eventually become. Almost a month had passed since trying to bring himself in line with some type of change – to prove he was capable. But offering up a half-ass apology to Daisy McKay was nowhere in the same stratosphere as having to sit at the right hand of Jax Teller if the clocks had their way and pushed time ahead even quicker. And if the casual little one-on-one he had with Jax three weeks ago in the parking lot held any inclination as to the status of this club's future, Tig's seat at the table may be in a different location.

He remembered that conversation all too well:

_"Get it all out, bro."_

_"Fine," Tig shot back. "Just tell me – where do I stand?"_

_Jax nodded to Tig's chest. "What does that patch say?"_

_"Don't want the patch to answer – I want you to. All this change….movin' away from guns….Clay steppin' down….you steppin' up….where do__I__stand – with__you__?"_

_Tig watched Jax study him a bit – not at all affected by his bluster. If anything, the little prince came a long way in the poker face department. "I don't know," Jax replied. "Guess that depends on where__you__think you stand – with__me__."_

_Looking off, Tig knew the consequences of his words, but he was at such a reckless crossroads right now he didn't care. "With the club – as a whole – I'm there. With you….this new direction…..not so sure."_

_Shaking his head, dumbfounded, Jax gave in a shrugged. "Guess I got my answer then."_

_"Guess I got mine too."_

Tig got more than an answer – he got his first glimpse inside the little prince's head. It was clear Jax wasn't going to beg or coddle the current sergeant. He didn't have to. His throne-in-waiting allowed him to take the '_if you're not with me, then you're against me'_ stand. Tig had made it clear – he wasn't with Jax per se, but he was with the club. But soon – very soon – Jax Teller_ was_ going to be the club and the assault of all those imaginary clocks ticking in Tig's head didn't help.

_Change_, Tig sneered to himself. It was starting to affect everyone. First Happy comes back from a weekend with his old lady with a ring on his finger and taking in strays. Juice is playing daddy and homeowner. Even the little shit in the garage is preparing to shack up with that young redhead he nailed once in a while. And the cherry on top of this sundae of change – Jax's last minute nuptuials on the Wahewa rez last weekend complete with Mayans, Niners and assorted brother's from surrounding charters. The future king taking his queen – preparing to take over. It made Tig want to wretch – everybody getting all caught up in wives, dogs, houses and kids. How long before Friday nights here turned into a church picnic with weenie roasts, sack races and lemonade?

And the pressure on him to try to conform and mold himself into something foreign caused him to attack a lug nut with a wrench. Clenched, white knuckles suffocated the metal tool as he tugged so hard he risked damage – an action which didn't go unnoticed.

"Uh…..you're gonna strip those threads, dude."

Flipping an unkempt piece of dark hair out of his vision, Tig turned a pair of fiery blue eyes on Toby. "_What _did you just call me?"

The teenager didn't flinch at the threatening tone – just took a respectful step back. "Just….nothin'. You're just…..you know….goin' too hard on those nuts."

Wrench still gripped tight in his hand, Tig pointed it in Toby's face. "Don't bother me. Don't question me. Don't call me any names of endearment, else I'll go hard on _your_ nuts ya little twerp."

Three month's ago, Toby would've scurried under a rock, but now the teen just sighed as if disappointed and disappeared to the opposite end of the garage. The kid's balls were getting bigger the longer he hung around here to where Tig couldn't intimidate him. As if apologizing Miss Daisy Stiff-Ass wasn't enough of a dent to his ego and crow-prince Teller laying down the future law of the land, he couldn't even scare off the kid. Dropping the wrench, the clank against the cemented floor reverberated through the garage, drowning the murderous thoughts going through his head only an emergency smoke could temporarily dissuade.

Moving outside, he slipped one out of the pack, put it between his lips then searched for his lighter. From across the parking lot, he saw Clay exit the clubhouse and look right at him – waving him down.

Tig wasted no time – lighting his smoke on the walk over. As long as Clay needed him – for whatever it was – he was there, no question, no shit whatsoever. "Yeah?"

"Got much longer on the clock?"

He shrugged. "I can rope the kid into finishin' up – straight time. What up?"

"Elliott's got that proposal to look over. Wanna get our ducks in a row before Jax returns tomorrow. Ready to be land-owners?"

Tig bristled at the weirdness of that statement. "Sounds…legit."

"Only sound I hear, brother, is 'ka-ching'. What's it matter where the green comes from."

A snort of sarcasm escaped Tig's nose like a bull eyeing a red flag. "Upcomin' retirement plans softenin' ya, Clay?"

Clay folded his arms in a defensive stance. "What's that mean?"

"It _means_, I remember a time when you scoffed at Mickey-Mouse business. JT wanted to go legit - you wanted to go guns. If he didn't buy it, this club would probably be all bake sales and white elephant booths."

The dark look which colored Clay Morrow's face was one which was usually saved for wearing down his enemies, but now….it was directed at his sergeant. "Number one – risk wasn't as high when JT was here. Different era. Now - fish bowl we're swimmin' in's clearer, rap sheets are longer and eyes on us are bigger. Time to be less risky and more….smart."

_Smart._ The politically correct club word for 'legit'. What's next – calling for 'transparency'? Clay couldn't be on-board with this new direction. Then again, his damaged hands were his own personal clock ticking down his reign. He had his time in the sun, ran the charter with an iron fist and made it wheel barrels of money for which his take was tucked away for when those hands could no longer grip a gavel.

"And 'number two'?" Tig asked

"LaRoy tellin' us at the weddin' last weekend about this cheaper supplier."

"Yeah, but that's a temp arrangement – you made that clear," Tig countered.

"I did. Who knows how long it'll last? Times are tough. Need to spread our eggs across several baskets and they need to cut costs."

"You really think LaRoy's gonna come crawlin' back to us once the kitty's filled to the brim? He'll stay with whoever's paddin' 'em with cheap hardware."

"And if they are cheap he'll realize the need for quality. Now….you wanna take a ride or what?"

Looking down at his grease-stained attire, Tig held his hands out. "I gotta clean up for a city hall appearance?"

"Ain't headin' there," Clay replied, striding towards his bike. "Meetin' at the farm. Should fit right in with the smell." Clay then halted, turned around and, again, offered that grin. "Unless, you want to freshen up and be pretty for a certain assistant?"

Shit! Did everyone think he had some kind of interest in Daisy? No. No way. No one was going to assume anything that wasn't true. He had enough eyes on him – not to mention questions and doubts flooding his way. Last thing he needed was his brother's thinking he had some…_.thing_ for an uppity little Jag-driving priss who acted like she was some model of morality. Ha! Maybe they should watch her tight ass getting slammed from behind in cable-porn.

Brushing past his president, Tig entered the garage, grabbed his cut from where he tossed it this morning over a tool cabinet, then marched back to his bike with purpose. "Let's go."

**~A**~

He just…..stared at her. Just like his master, he never took his eyes off her.

From her desk in the back of the store, Amanda casually glanced up and right into a pair of loyal brown eyes lazily sprawled across his blue and gray plaid dog bed. Ever since Juice enlisted himself to help and found him in a shelter in Sacramento while she and Hap were on a getaway-slash-honeymoon, the five year old boxer had been the latest addition to their version of a 'family'. Formerly owned by a man who fixed up junk cars in his garage before he was foreclosed upon and couldn't take a dog with him, the pooch felt right at home as soon as he took his first sniff around Hap – picking up remnants of gasoline, grease and dirt which clung to his boots. After an initial meeting and a weekend trial, they drove back to Sacramento to pick him up for good. The dog practically bounded towards Amanda's Edge and leapt into the back where the hatch was opened and waiting for him.

And though true to her word that she'd allow Hap to name him, they both felt his original name fit him perfectly – as the eighty pound canine was certainly as big as a 'tank'.

Not wanting to leave him home alone all day only to come home to a chewed house, Amanda split Tank's time between the store and the clubhouse. Here, he loyally remained in the back office, stepping out only when told – or whenever Ellie was around. But at the clubhouse, he was spoiled rotten. Toby walked him, Bobby snuck him part of his sandwich, Maniac rough-housed with him and the sweetbutts fawned over him.

That is – until Hap showed up.

As soon as the big boxer locked eyes on his master, everyone else was invisible. With unconditional loyalty, the dog would make a beeline towards him, only to cautiously stop within inches and sit at his feet – looking up with anticipation of some sort of recognition. Not one to go overboard in the affection department, Hap offered up only a scratch behind the ears in acknowledgement before going about his business – Tank faithfully in tow.

The jingling bell in the storefront signaled a customer had entered - causing Tank's keen senses to whip his head in that direction. Erin's voice answering an inquiry was followed by heels clicking against the store's laminate floor in her direction. And with Tank's gaze on the approaching individual, the strained wiggle in the dog's stubbed tail told Amanda it was someone familiar. Family. Club. The only people he'd so far come into contact with. And that was confirmed when Gemma appeared in the doorway with Thomas in her arms. "Employees laying down on the job?" she quipped, eyeing the dog."

Brushing the queen's humor aside, Amanda stood up and went straight for the baby who had tear-streaked eyes. "This is a surprise," she exclaimed, hoisting Thomas against her hip before he let out another wail.

"Cutting a tooth," Gemma exclaimed, blowing a piece of hair out of her eyes. "Of course he waited for his parents to take off to Lake Tahoe to let it all out." She looked back out to the front of the store then back. "The redhead alone?"

"Lyla's watching Henry while Eve and Juice are at the bank."

"Ah. Big day. The little latino is growing up."

Amanda let a chuckle escape and sat back down, perching Thomas upon her lap. She soothingly rubbed the baby's back just as Tank decided to hoist his muscular body up and investigate. The kids loved the dog and he was equally intrigued by them – especially Thomas who, even with a mouthful of pain, managed a smile as his hand found the silky tip of the dogs ear while he sniffed the child's toes. Reassuring himself it wasn't an offending outsider come to put themselves between him and his mistress, Tank went over to get some affection from Gemma. A manicured finger quickly rubbed the top of the dog's head. "Hey there, bubba," she said, clearly not at all keen around animals. "K – go lay back down."

The dog wouldn't budge – keeping an eye on Amanda and the baby, which made Gemma chuckle. "Loyal mutt."

Amanda inwardly scoffed as Tank was a pure boxer, but she wasn't in the mood to argue with Gemma as the feel of a chubby baby, albeit cranky, was like a soothing balm. "Should see him when Hap comes home. It's like battle of the alpha-males for my attention."

Gemma snorted. "Who wins?"

Amanda threw her an obvious look. "Who do you think?"

"Dumb question. So, just popped in to say hi. Gave Elyda a break. Abel's too much of a handful to leave a screaming baby with her. By the way, thanks for watching him for a few hours yesterday. Had some garage chaos to straighten out."

"No problem." Taking the leftover bagel portion of her turkey sandwich, Amanda held it up to Thomas for him to gnaw on. "Jax and Tara coming back tomorrow?"

"Yeah," Gemma replied, folding her arms and leaning against the doorway. "Don't get me wrong – I love my grandkids, but I ain't cut out for this shit long-term."

Amanda heard, but could only concentrate on Thomas as he gummed the poor bagel, all the while bouncing him on her knee.

"Sure you and Hap don't wanna adopt humans next?" Gemma mused.

"One dependent at a time," she replied.

"So…..where_ is_ your _husband_ today?"

It wasn't the first time she heard the term, but Amanda was just getting used to Hap being referred to as her 'old man' when a weekend in Sonoma and an unconventional proposal changed the landscape. "Sutter Creek with Chibs and Ope, I think. Some old leather factory. I'm guessing it's for a different use."

"Hmph," Gemma huffed. "I'm _guessing_ that ring on your finger got you a bit more….disclosure."

Amanda half shook her head. "I ask, but he still tells me only what's necessary. You know the saying – the less you know, the less you can testify to."

"Well aren't we the pillar of old lady wisdom," the queen sassed.

"I'm just glad for the quiet."

"Enjoy it. Like sunshine in Seattle – don't know how long it'll last."

Amanda shrugged. "Maybe when Clay steps down and Jax takes over?"

Gemma warily lifted her chin. "Why do you say that?"

"I don't know," she began, then thought a bit. "Jax & Tara's wedding last weekend – there was quite an assortment of…."

"Characters?" Gemma filled in.

Amanda nodded. "I swear Hap was like an appendage most of the night. Not so much because of the other charters, but the Mayans. Those…..Niners. You can sense they know a change in ranks is coming soon and they've got to deal with someone other than Clay. Just hope it's a …..smooth change."

Gemma pushed away from the doorjamb. "If it doesn't, it won't be because of outside forces."

"Now why do _you_ say _that_?" Amanda asked.

Gemma walked over to take the baby. "Like you said – change in ranks, changes in loyalty – may not go over well. C'mon, I'll let you get back to work."

Amanda stood with Thomas still in her arms. "Wasn't really _work. _Doing some personal stuff. Getting inked is one thing, being bound by a legal doc's another. Just thinking about the future. You know…..long term planning."

"Mmm," Gemma hummed. "You're talking to someone who's already at the end of that_ term_."

"C'mon, I'll walk you out," she said, eyeing Tank. "Stay here."

Outside in the late August heat, Amanda stood by Gemma's Escalade before handing Thomas over to be deposited in the car seat. The soft voices carried by the air and footsteps against the pavement filled the late Friday afternoon on Baker Street – one voice in particular.

"Afternoon, ladies."

Two sets of eyes turned to the figure in blue approaching. "Afternoon, lieutenant," Amanda was the first to reply.

"So," Phillips addressed Gemma. "When's your boy coming back with his new bride?"

"Tomorrow," Gemma replied.

Lieutenant Phillips then glanced at Amanda. "I hear a congratulations is in store for you too, Miss Amanda?"

Amanda gazed at the brushed, platinum band on her left hand. "Yes. Thank you."

"Love is in the air," Phillips mused, turning to Gemma. "I understand there was quite a…guest list at that reservation."

Gemma pursed her lips. "Well, you know what they say about free food and an open bar – bring's everyone out of the woodwork."

"I'm sure it did," he replied, tipping his hat in a mannerly way. "You ladies have a wonderful afternoon."

Watching him walk back to his squad car, Gemma snorted. "I still don't trust anyone _that _polite."

**~A~**

"Not chained to the mayoral desk today, Elliott?"

Elliott Oswald offered a polite scoff at Clay's sense of humor. "_Interim_ mayor, Clay. I still got a farm and business to run."

"Thought you hired some corporate genius to take the reins – no pun intended."

"I did. Evan's working out great. It's only been a month, though. Still has a lot to learn, but he and Daisy are holding down the fort here pretty well."

Clay's eyes casually glanced over to Tig who fought not to acknowledge any mention of the stiff ass. He stood stoic, eyes shaded, arms folded and face serious. "You got the contract?" He wanted to stay all business.

"In my office. Take a walk?"

"Why not?" Clay said, turning to Tig. "Comin'?"

"Nah, I'll hang back. I love the smell of manure in August."

Watching his president walk away, Tig's back found a split rail fence to lean against as he took in the tranquility of his surroundings. No garage, no fumes, no power tools, no straight pipes, no spray of bullets and streams of blood. This place represented a complete opposite of his life – just like the little priss who was most likely holed up in the farmhouse-style office stealing peeks at him from the slightly closed blinds. The mere thought of Miss Daisy McKay with her pretentious car, overpriced wardrobe and dainty, sloped nose stuck up in the air made him snort. Nothing but a façade. Strip her down and get her on her back and she'd be no different than any other bitch.

Perhaps the same could apply to Jax? Outside, he was heir to the head of the table who stuck himself on a roof with pencils, journals and books trying to channel the spirit of his peace, love and legit father and weave it into the club's current status. But on the inside – he was no different than the rest of them. An outlaw. A criminal. A murderer. Maybe, in time, the true man he really is, the one who was shaped by years of debauchery, violence and authority in the mother charter, would rise up and beat down the _'lets-stop-and-smell-the-flowers-instead-of-uprooting-them'_ little prince and turn him into a ruthless future king. Yeah – wishful thinking.

Tires rolling against gravel behind him caught his attention, but not enough to turn his head. But only when the vehicle came to a stop behind him did Tig look. The powder blue Jag pulled into its spot – causing his insides to tighten a bit. Why, he had no idea. So the little stiff ass wasn't inside the office after all. He continued to look, but without any hint of curiosity or care as the driver's side door opened.

And out stepped Evan-douche.

Narrowing eyes behind his shades then watched the passenger door open, followed by a long leg – bare to mid thigh – in a three inch white heel. It propelled the owner of that leg out of the car, in a white summer dress which wrapped that slender body of hers like a glove. No, skinny. Way too skinny. For him at least. Damn, the bitch needed a sandwich. But when she offered her silhouette, he couldn't help notice that tight little ass of hers pop out. His eyes followed the graceful curve of her lower back where the ends of her hair teased as it hung in a loose ponytail. He had to admit – he liked the hair. Long. Lush. Thick. He counted how many times he could wrap it around his fist to hold her in place while he gave it to her good and hard from behind.

Thoughts which had no place in his mind while on business caused Tig to look away, but not before he saw Evan take Daisy's hand and walk towards the farmhouse office like two lovebirds coming back from and clandestine lunch. Again, he looked at them, the heat from his gaze sending a signal strong enough for Daisy to look in his direction by the fence. When she saw him, she stopped short and – he had to laugh when she did this – drop Evan's hand. "_Gotcha,"_ he thought to himself. "_Like I care you and the pretty little douche are playing office Olympics."_

The sound of her heels against the gravel told Tig she was walking over. He fought hard not to flash a victory grin. Again, what did he care?

"What're you doing here?" Daisy asked.

Calm, cool and absolutely unaffected, Tig didn't even bother to acknowledge her with his eyes. "Business with your boss," he sharply stated.

"Oh." He heard her say as another set of footsteps against gravel found their way over. "How long have you been here?"

He shrugged, still refusing to look at her as if it was not important enough to do so. "Ten….fifteen….whatever." He then decided to face her. "Why. Gonna put on a pot of coffee or somethin'?"

He realized it was a mistake to look at her. Shit, she was pretty. Large hazel eyes and skin glowing with the heat of the afternoon sun. His eyes burned to run up and down that white-swathed body of hers, but was sidetracked when Mister Ralph Lauren next to her stuck his hand out. "Hi. Evan Reese."

Tig stared at the less-than-masculine hand – clean, with trimmed nails buffed to a shine. The little metro-sexual probably got weekly manicures while waiting for the pleats in his khaki's to be pressed. Pushing away from the fence, Tig tugged the glove off his right hand, displaying streaks of grease and caked dirt imbedded under his nails. He glanced from the offered hand, back to his own, then to Evan's eyes as he put the glove back on – a silent gesture that he had no intention of shaking anyone's hand. He had to get away from them – fast, but not before one last dig.

Wedging himself between them, his back to Evan, Tig then took the opportunity to give Daisy's five foot nine inch frame a thorough, earthy inspection. "You look good, doll-face," he told her before casually walking away. "Later."

Daisy couldn't help it. As appalled as she was she couldn't take her eyes off the rude, filthy mess of a biker. She wanted to storm after him, whip off her Steve Madden pump and poke those eyes of his out with its heel. How dare he? How _dare_ he? His manner was about as good as the apology he gave her a month ago – worthless.

"Who was that?" Evan finally asked her.

Daisy wouldn't know where to begin as she had absolutely no idea on how to describe the hot mess which was Tig Trager. "No one."

**~A~**

He was tired. He was dirty. He was hungry.

It was almost eight o'clock at night and after a day of holding Sutter Creek's hand getting the old leather factory set up to store their cache of guns, Happy was now ready to go home

Entering through the kitchen door, he barely got his cut slid off when he was greeted. Not by his old lady – as the term 'wife' was still foreign in his world – but by the big, brute of a boxer who hovered around them like a hawk, went through dog food like a knife through butter and shit like a bear in the woods. He allowed the dog his mandatory sniffs, picking up road dust, fumes, sweat and, no doubt, gun powder – something he'd better get used to. Un-holstering his gun, he placed it on the table then shrugged out of the shoulder harness before sitting down to unlace his boots. Tank loyally sat and watched as Amanda walked in. "Hey," she said, walking to the fridge, "you must be ready to drop."

Tossing his boots in the corner, he sat back and took the offered beer bottle. Domesticity found a way to blend with his life outside these walls. There was something very primal about playing with guns all day then going home to his bitch, man's best friend, cold beer, hot shower, satisfying meal and even more satisfying sex. "I am," he said, cracking the beercap off, taking a swig then leaning forward to roughly rub Tank under his jowls. "What'cha got in the oven?"

Opening the oven door, Amanda slid out the pyrex dish. "Beef stroganoff – over egg noodles. Why don't you take a quick shower."

"Nah – lemme eat first before I chew off my fingers." He got up to wash his hands at the sink while she plated supper. Handing it to him with a fork and napkin he went back to the table and sat, eyeing Tank who was eyeing the plate. "Mine," Hap told him, getting eye to eye with the dog. "You eat more than your share. Now go lay down."

Dutifully, Tank tip-tapped his paws over to the rug in front of the sink before plopping his big body down with a thud. Amanda poured a half glass of wine and sat at the other end of the table. "Get everything done?"

"Shoulda been done and home by five. Guys don't know what they're doin'. Can't believe we're puttin' guns in their hands." He was honest, but short. Little by little, he divulged club business to Amanda as she saw fit, but one of the first things he had informed her of was their gun dealing. And like a good old lady under the instruction of her man, she kept what she knew to herself. Sticking a forkful of the creamy beef, mushroom and onion mix in his mouth, he chewed with satisfaction then took a swig of beer. "How's your day?"

"Good. Slow, but I'm booked with flower order appointments for the next week. Last of the summer weddings."

He noticed her hand resting on a small stack of file folders on the edge of the table. "You bring work home?"

She looked at the files and lifted her hand off them. "These? Oh, no. But, I was using the down time today to work on this."

"What?"

She took a sip of wine then a deep breath. "Well, since we're….married, I thought I'd make a list of stuff we need to consider for the long run. You know – financial planning….."

"Finances are fine, A," he quickly said. "You see the stacks of cash comin' in. Don't gotta worry. You and me gonna retire very nicely."

"Yeah, but…..that's not all we need to plan for," she said. "We have to….you know…..for _that_ time."

"_What_ time?" he asked.

"Do I have to spell it out?"

"Guess so."

She raised the glass again to her lips, this time draining the contents. "_Your_ lifestyle, _my_ place in it. I think we need to consider..….arrangements."

He felt the blood rise to the vein in his forehead. _"Arrangements_?" he quietly asked.

"Making out a will. Selecting plots…." The metal fork thrown down in the dish caused Amanda to jump and Tank's head to raise from where it had been resting on top of his crossed paws. "Hap? What?"

"What the hell you talkin' about, girl?" he asked, containing as much of his anger as possible.

Amanda looked as confused as he was. "Our future. Details. Making plans. Hap, we have to think about this stuff….."

"No we _don't_," he bit out and stood up. "Didn't come home after a fucked up afternoon to talk about this shit."

Her jaw was practically on the floor. "_You're_ the one who saw the files and asked."

He strode past her. "Wish I didn't. I'm takin' a shower."

"What about your dinner?"

"Ain't hungry anymore."

**~A~**

Tig didn't need to drink too much – just an elixir strong enough to temporarily numb his brain and freeze his thoughts. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to feel. He didn't want to imagine what his future with the club was nor did he want to picture Jax Teller slamming down a gavel which had been in Clay's hand longer than he could remember.

And he certainly didn't want to think of that mass of chocolate-cherry hair and tight ass wrapped in a snug dress while hazel colored eyes burned with disgust of him. The only burning sensation he wanted was the second shot of top shelf bourbon which coated his throat and pooled in his gut until the fermentation brought him to a place where he could go back home. Home. Yeah, his home was the clubhouse. Not a pretty ranch surrounded by roses, not some broken down foreclosure to be transformed and not a place filled with cribs, toys and diapers. He was married to the club – an unconditional, loyal partner that would never shaft him, never play games with him and never bitch at him. But if things turned out the way they were progressing, he'd be the bitch under Jax Teller's Feng Shui design for the club.

He had enough of the dive bar he poured himself into over an hour ago just between Lodi and Stockton – a black, zippered hoodie keeping his patches under wraps in strange waters. He didn't even want to be in his own town, let alone his own clubhouse. The fact that the surrounding circumstances disturbed him enough to keep him from his home sickened him.

Out the door and on his bike, Tig took off towards that dreaded destination – tearing down the main road dimly lit by fading street lamps illuminating the small crowd of inhabitants which still mulled about. He was suddenly eager to get back to the clubhouse as nothing – or no one – was going to keep him away from the one thing that was his constant. Tighter he squeezed the accelerator, blowing past a corner café where three women were enjoying a late dinner al fresco. Sand kicked up from his peeling tires, causing passer's by to back away on the sidewalk – and Tig's bike to fishtail.

Senses dulled by four shots of bourbon did just enough for Tig not to lay his bike down, but rather jump the curb – his night goggles impairing the clarity of vision. He managed to stay upright, but not before watching the three women jump out of the seats and propel themselves backwards as their table crashed over before Tig roared back onto the street leaving the sounds of muffled screams and shattered glass behind.

"_Shit!"_ It was all his mind was capable of as his bike scraped against a red Subaru Outback before steadying his balance for good. He had to get out of there. Going back wasn't an option. Fortunately, his patches were hidden, but if anyone got a glimpse of the markings on his bike it be a dead giveaway. With demons nipping at his tires, he tore out of Lodi and towards the Charming border – just as the sound of several cars in the distance sped closer. _"Shit!"_ he thought again. He was being chased. He couldn't get caught. His priors would put him inside without question. No. No, no, no! As much as he didn't like the direction the club was going in, he didn't want to experience its potential demise via phone calls and scheduled visits at Stockton.

The 'Welcome To Charming' sign wasn't too far, but the cars were getting closer. And leading them into Charming on his bike where SAMCRO resided would be a dead giveaway. His only option was to detour, find a spot to hide out and lay low. Where? Shit! Closer, and closer Tig hear the cars approaching as he pulled left- bringing him to a main road which branched out to several side streets.

It was then that he saw the street.

It had to be the same one. He remembered it from when he was bored, not thinking straight and had Juice look it up for kicks and giggles one inebriated evening. But he wasn't too drunk to remember the street name. Onto it he pulled, coasting down to see the house numbers, but not too slow as to avoid his predators catching up. Down the street he went. Where the hell?

But he didn't have to see a street number. He saw something better. A clear indication he found the right house. He couldn't believe how relieved he was to see that powder blue Jag.

Parked at the end of the driveway, Tig pulled up alongside it and back towards a small chained, link fence surrounding a small back yard. A back door with a single light on was all he needed to see. Quickly dismounting, he took the four cement steps leading up to the door two at a time just as it opened on the other side. The reaction was just what he expected.

"What?" Daisy exclaimed, taking in his obviously desperate and wild look. "What are you doing here? How did you…..?"

"You alone?" he demanded.

"What…..yes…..why…?

"Expectin' anyone?"

"Why?"

"Answer the question, doll. Quick!"

"No," she shot back.

Pushing his way inside, he didn't give her time to protest. "Looks like you got company for the night."

~/~

**I appreciate your feedback and reviews! Thanks!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the positive feedback so far . Story is moving very fast. All mapped out to the end and practically writing itself. Even though I'm not getting into in-depth detail, I hope the condensed backstory I do give is satisfactory. Crossing my fingers you like my AU take on this situation. The you know what hits the fan next chapter. **

~/~

**Chapter 2**

"What do you mean? What did you do? What happened?"

Questions. Three too many to be exact. And none he was prepared to answer as Tig cut through Daisy's modest little home to the front window - slowly pulling aside the sheer curtains while stretching his arm out to turn off a nearby lamp.

"Tig. I want an answer."

Orders from a female never went over well. But he had to cut the little stiff ass some slack. She wasn't some club bitch who knew better than to mouth him. She was someone he used to try to get a jump start on his vision quest for change by tossing her a disingenuous apology and now turned up his asshole-ish-ness by barging into her house at night on the run from God-knows who.

He looked at her in the now-dimness of her living room – cream colored lounge pants with faint, lavender stripes and a matching camisole. He was right – her tits were small. But they were damn, fucking perfect.

"Listen to me, doll…."

"Don't call me that," she emphatically stated.

His own spine stiffened at the disgust in her voice – disgust for him, how he looked, how he spoke and how he just charged into her house and took over. "Want me to go back to callin' ya 'stiff ass'?"

"I have a name, Tig. I would appreciate it if you'd use it."

Draping the curtain back over the window, he took an arrogant stance, hands on hips. "A'ight, _Daisy_," he emphasized her name with sarcasm. "Right now, what I need, is to hang for a few hours."

"Why?"

Again with questions he couldn't fault her for. Whether she deserved an answer or not, he just wasn't in the mood to recount what just happened. "Can't get into it. Just need ya to trust me." He caught her eyes widen at the absurdity of that statement. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know – I'm a dick. I fuck up a lot. And I did tonight. Just gotta hang tight till the coast is clear. Don't want anyone followin' me into Charming."

She cautiously stepped back. "Someone's following you? And you came….._here_? To my home? What if…"

"Don't worry," he cut off the beginning of another set of questions. "No one saw me pull in. Just need…..whoever, to give up and drive back so I can go home." Home. Which was a clubhouse dorm. His eyes glanced around the living room – tidy, neat, simple, beige tones. Reminded him of a hotel room.

He waited for some kind of reply from her, but she just stood there wringing her hands, backed away and looking about. "_Only_ an hour?"

"Why? Said you weren't expectin' anyone?"

"That's not the point."

"Evan don't make surprise visits?" Her hazel eyes narrowed at that comment. "Don't ya know interoffice datin' is taboo?"

That sloped nose went up in the air as she lifted her chin at his audacity. "My personal life is none of your business."

"Wasn't makin' it my business, but shit doll, if you're gonna date, then date a _man_. That douche's hands are more delicate than yours."

"Don't talk about Evan that way," she politely, but firmly defended. "He's very nice, educated, cultured…."

"_Cultured?"_ Tig's made a sour face. "What, like…..milk?"

Slender arms crossed that perky bosom of hers. "No. Like….art. Music. Film."

"Yeah?" he replied with amusement. "So, he ever see _your_ film work?"

That invisible rod in her spine sprang up, stretching her five foot nine frame to its limit as she pointed towards the back door. "Get out."

"Calm down, doll….."

"I said don't call me that…"

"Fine…..Da-isy," he sang out in two syllables."

"I don't care. Get out."

"What? I was just jokin'."

She shook her head. "I'll tell you what's a joke – that apology you gave me a month ago. You say you're sorry, then back to throwing up my past in my face.?" Even though being chewed out by a bitch irked him, he had to admit that temper loosened up the little stiff ass.

"You have no idea why I did what I did back in college," she continued, before covering her face. "God, I had no idea they were still showing those on cable."

Tig shrugged. "For what it's worth, ya looked pretty fine doin' that…."'

"Stop! Oh my God, stop! No. Wait. I told you to get out."

"A'ight, a'ight, don't get your panties in a twist. That is….if ya got any on this late at night."

Daisy couldn't look more mortified if she tried, though she did her best to remain proper and cool in her angered state. Looking around the living room, she took a throw pillow off the couch and threw it at him. Tig ducked, catching the pillow with one hand. "Whoa….."

He ducked again, this time a paperback book came whistling back him and slammed against the wall onto the floor. "What the hell's 'sodoku'?" he asked, looking at the fallen book.

"Something you're probably too stupid to do," she huffed, looking around for something else to throw. But before she could find anything, Tig had her right arm in a grip while a finger still covered in car grease came up to her face. "Who ya callin' _stupid_?" He could care less about what she told him to call her. He'll call her whatever he wanted right now after she called him stupid.

Daisy looked where his hands gripped her arms then up to his face. "I'm…..sorry. Let go of me." Her voice was proper calm, though those hazel eyes told differently

But he didn't let her go. All the pent up frustration, the change, the wondering, the second-guessing about him – was bubbling inside and this bitch calling him 'stupid' didn't make matters better. "You think you're so better than everyone else, huh? You and that J. Crew bozo you're screwin' around with…."

"We're…..we're not…."

"Maybe _that's_ your problem. You don't like me? Think I'm trash? Think I'm _stupid_? Well, maybe. But there's one thing that I ain't, and that's afraid to tell it like it is. Maybe what you need is a good, hard screw to loosen up that stiff ass of yours. And from the looks of Boy Wonder, I think he might be too worried about breakin' a nail to do the job."

She looked like she wanted to haul off and hit him, but the angry fire in those hazel eyes were covered in fear and maybe…..a bit of agreement. "Stop it," she quietly said, as if afraid to anger him further. "Stop talking to me like that, let me go and please leave."

"You really want me to leave and get my ass in a sling?"

She momentarily thought. "No, I…..."

"If I'm caught I can go back to jail."

She gulped. "_Back_ to jail?"

"Yeah, sweetheart. Been incarcerated. Several times. Got a criminal record longer than those legs of yours. Add that to your list of my faults."

She looked about to cry, but was fighting to stifle it. Little priss was doing her best to look proper and in control, but Tig knew better. "Look, I'm sorry….I…..I didn't mean."

"Yeah, ya did. That's okay. I'm far from perfect, doll-face. And guess what – so are you, so drop the high and mighty act."

She bit her lip. "I never said I was perfect."

"See now," he exclaimed. "We actually got somethin' in common."

"Evan and I have a _lot_ in common," she defended.

Tig snorted. "Yeah? Besides…..culture? Tell me - when he holds you with those girly hands do you feel like this?"

Those lips of her parted with some hidden anticipation and the glaze in her eyes was only matched by the flush of her cheeks. "What? Feel…..how?"

Ignorant bitch asked for it as he planted his mouth right on hers, taking advantage of those parted lips to stick his tongue right between them. She squealed a gasp in his mouth, even struggled to pull away, but the sensation he knew was slowly building inside would weaken her right to the bone. And sure enough, she sagged against him, hands up to grip the hood of his sweatshirt while pressing those perfect little tits of hers against his chest.

What started as a lesson turned out to be a bad idea. Seeing it to fruition by bending her over the couch, pulling those lounge pants down and giving her what she was obviously not getting from Evan was too easy. But she called out his lame apology of a month ago and fucking her like a crow eater would really prove how much of a dick he really was. Not to mention, he had told her to _'stay good'_ and getting in bed with him would toss that out the window.

With willpower he didn't know he had, he pulled away. Looking at her was a mistake as she was ripe for the picking. He couldn't do this. Somewhere a moral standing rose up inside him and told him to get his shit together and get the hell out.

"I better go," he said, leaving her in a state he fought badly not to take care of. But before he headed to the back door, he held her firmly by the chin. "Next time your boy kisses you, show 'im how to do it right."

And with that last arrogant statement, Tig headed out the back door and onto his bike.

**~A~**

The aroma of coffee woke her up.

That and a scratchy, wet tongue.

"Ugh, Tank," Amanda grumbled as the pooch backed away – successful in his mission of waking his mistress up. Wiping her face then rubbing her eyes, Amanda felt the kink in her back seize. Sleeping on the couch usually did that. She didn't start out that way, but woke up about one a.m. and unable sleep even as Hap had absolutely no trouble at all beside her. His outburst the night before took her by surprise. Yeah, sure planning for you future demise wasn't exactly dinner table conversation, but he asked and she was honest. She had no idea he was going to practically freak out.

The coffee pot sputtering told her he was already up and in the kitchen. Looking at the clock on the cable box, she had to get up and get ready. She had several flower orders to prepare, appointments to schedule for the upcoming week then an owner's lunch with Lyla to bring each other up to speed on things. She liked being busy and independent. It was the balance she needed for the life outside of the store.

And the symbol of that life was now her husband who didn't come out in the middle of the night, order her off the couch and back into bed with him. He was obviously still angry about what she was doing, but Amanda would make no apologies for thinking ahead and being responsible. Getting up, she leaned down to scratch Tank's ears as he followed her into the kitchen like a shadow. The creaking hinge of the swinging door didn't even make Hap flinch from where he stood at the counter, facing the coffee pot. She didn't announce herself, nor did he say a word. Instead, he reached up in the cabinet, took a cup, grabbed the coffee pot and poured. Adding two Splenda and her staple fat-free half and half, he stirred then turned his body halfway – cup in hand – and held it out to here. "Here."

Amanda took it as some kind of peace offering as he knew the importance of her morning java boost. Crossing the kitchen, she grabbed the handle, his profile making it unable for her to make full eye contact with him. "Thanks." She took a sip then looked at the dog. "He need to be let out?"

"Took care of it."

Taking another sip, she knew there wasn't going to be anymore conversation than this. "I have to get ready," she said, turning to leave. "Gotta be at the store by ten." But she barely made it out.

"Why'd you go on the couch?"

Her back still to him, as was his to hers, she replied. "Woke up about one. Couldn't get back to sleep. Didn't want to disturb you."

"You don't disturb me, Amanda." _Amanda_. Not _'A'_ that he endearingly called her – symbolized by the scripted tattoo on the back of his neck. He always reserved her full name for when he was serious.

"Yeah, it seems I do," she finally said, referring to how much she 'disturbed' him with her future planning.

"Hey?"

She finally turned around to face him as did he. "Yeah?"

"Sorry for snappin' like that."

She knew the man he was, the pride he held and the respect he demanded. Which is why she knew an apology from him came with sincerity and much thought. "I was just thinking…..ahead."

"Been married a month, A. Wait a while before thinkin' _that_ much ahead."

"I'm just….trying to be responsible. Anything can happen. Anytime. Look what happened to me with Haas."

"_Don't_, Amanda," he rubbed his forehead in frustration. "Just…..don't. I don't want to hear about wills, plots, dying….nothing, a'ight? You ain't goin' anywhere – _especially_ before me."

Amanda wasn't an idiot to know where this was going. By God, the two of them met in a cemetery – she mourning her dad's grave while he was about to commit suicide over his dead girl's. Death brought them together. Death continued to hover when he killed her mother then Franklin Haas. Death might soon come to his ailing mother. And for what he truly was to the club, death would always be a focal point in his life. For as responsible as she was trying to be, she knew talking to him about possibly having to bury her first was not something to discuss one month into marriage.

She walked over to him and ran her hand down his left arm until her fingers found the gold band encircling his ring finger. "Fine. I'll hold off. But, at some point we have to consider this stuff."

He clasped the back of her neck with his other hand, pulled her forward and kissed her forehead. "We will."

They quietly stared at each other, aware of another pair of eyes on them as well. Looking down, Tank stood there, his stubbed tail doing its best to wiggle as he looked between his owners. Hap shook his head. "What're we doin' with him today?"

"I'll be in and out, so he's with you. I'll drop him off at the clubhouse on my way out. Just please ask Bobby not to feed him roast beef and salami sandwiches – unless he wants to come here and pick up the monster sized crap in the back yard?"

She left to get ready as Hap looked down at the dog and growled. "Pain in the ass."

**~A~**

He never made it back to Charming last night.

Instead, Tig had pushed his bike down Daisy's street – careful not to let the earsplitting pipes give him up should those cars still be looking for him. When he was safe the coast was clear, he mounted, started it up and made his way back to the border around midnight. But fatigue, the shots of bourbon and the taste of the little stiff ass still on his lips made him weary. Pulling off just inside Charming, he headed to the field owned by Elliott Oswald - soon to be co-owned with SAMCRO. He had parked, swung off then laid upon the sweet, cool grass as the clear, NorCal night dotted with stars and the remnants of Daisy's perfume lulled him to sleep.

Now it was morning and getting on a bike after sleeping on the ground wasn't pretty. Flipping his prepaid open, he checked the time – almost nine a.m. He needed a shower and, if nothing pressing was going on at the club, a nap.

Once past the 'Welcome To Charming' sign, he kicked into gear, safely roaring his Dyna inside its walls. Weekend work being done by the town on the street and sidewalks caused him to detour – noticing a familiar figure standing in the middle of the severely overgrown lawn of a dilapidated house. Coming to a stop in front of it, he killed the engine and raised his glasses to take in the sight. "You actually spent money on this dump?"

Shirtless and sweaty Juice dropped the ax in his hand where he was attacking the overgrown shrubs practically covering the front of the house then wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Once I finish cuttin' back the jungle won't look so bad from the outside."

"I can only imagine the inside."

"Wanna take a look?"

"No, I _don't_ wanna take a look," Tig huffed, annoyed by Juice's goofy '_I-just-bought-a-home'_ grin. "Right now, I need sleep."

Juice eyed Tig's attire. "And some soap. What'd ya do - pull an all-nighter?"

"Somethin' like that. Guess since you're playin' 'Joe-The-Repairman' today, there ain't no club shit goin' on."

Juice pulled his cell out of his camouflage pans. "On call. If somethin's up, I'll leave. Shit's slow so Clay gave me time to get started here – least till Jax comes back. Sure you don't wanna come in and see?"

"Yeah. I'm sure," Tig bit out, firing up the engine again. "Have fun."

Speeding away, he cursed under his breath. Tussling with a stiff-ass and sleeping on the ground put him in a sour mood – not to mention half his charter was living in Cleaver-ville. Pulling into the familiar comfort of the clubhouse parking lot, he backed into his spot as someone came over to welcome him.

"Hey there, big guy," Tig called out to Tank as he dismounted. The eighty pound boxer responded to Tig's acknowledgement by jumping up, placing his big front paws on his shoulders. "You holdin' down the fort?" Tig asked, roughly scratching the sides of the dog's head as he panted in his face. Looking around, he didn't see the usual early Saturday morning carnage – considering last night was Friday.

"Tank! Get the hell down!"

From the garage, Happy walked out as Tank obediently went to his master upon hearing his voice as Tig went to meet him halfway. "Eh, it's a'ight."

"Don't want 'im jumpin' on people," Hap replied. "Where you comin' from?"

"Dive between Stockton and Lodi. One too many shots. Crashed local," Tig offered and not one detail more as he looked around. "Why's it so dead? Thought there'd be sleepin' bodies and beer bottles from last night."

Happy shrugged. "Guess nothin' went on last night. Clay's takin' it easy. Juice's workin' on his house. Chibs, Ope and me didn't finish up at Sutter Creek till eight – went right home."

Tig had a hard time believing what he heard. This was Happy. The Tacoma Killer- turned fearsome Nomad -turned Redwood's Prized Assassin. The guy could drink an entire fifth, knock someone's ass out in the ring then finish up nailing two chicks in a row on little or no sleep. Now he was home to the wife and dog-child by eight. Shit, the universe is really off its axis.

"And Jax ain't comin' back till later this afternoon, so shit's on hold."

Yeah, that's it, Tig thought. Prince Charming is on his honeymoon which means the world stops spinning and Friday night parties come to a halt.

"Damn, bro," Hap said, nodding to Tig's bike. "What the hell you crash into?"

_Shit!_ Tig muttered to himself. Last night. Jumping the curb. Almost running over those ladies, knocking over their table before side-swiping a car en route to take refuge at the muted-beige home of Daisy McKay. He shrugged it off, not wanting to give anything way. "It's nothin'. I'll buff it out later. Right now I need to crash. Later."

Tig walked away, leaving Happy behind to stare after him with bewilderment.

**~A~**

If there's one thing working the hard streets of Oakland taught LaRoy Wayne is that payback happens sooner than later. "Cops stayin' outta it. Made sure of 'dat. We take care of this. We take care of this now!"

The dimly lit office was a contrast to the harsh, fluorescent lights of a hospital corridor where the man sitting behind the desk just spent the last ten hours. His brow furrowed with controlled anguish. If there was one thing running the streets taught Damon Pope was that you kept your emotions under control – even after your daughter was just killed.

And the young man pacing his office right now was long past anguish and in full-on revenge mode. Veronica Pope was his lady. His now-dead lady that needed taken care of. But she was Damon's daughter – first and foremost – and if an order came down to track down who was responsible and take care of it, it was gonna come from him.

"Easy, LaRoy," Damon told him, the calmness in his voice belying the traumatic news he received several hours earlier. Dead. His beautiful, young Veronica dead – by some careless asshole who jumped the curb on his bike, causing her and two friends to jump out of their seats at a patio table and back out of the way. But Veronica lost her footing in those damn three-inch, four hundred dollar Blahnik's. She fell back right through the plate glass front of the bistro restaurant, her head coming down hard on the stone floor – killing her instantly.

"Easy?" LaRoy snorted. "Yeah, it's easy. Lemme just do this. Gotta be SAMCRO."

"You sure?" Damon asked, sitting forward to fold his hands on the desk. "You absolutely sure it was them?"

"Got no doubt," LaRoy replied. "Had her wit me at Teller's weddin' last week. They know what she looked like. Probably had her tailed to the restaurant last night."

The facts didn't add up in Damon's experienced mind. He didn't travel halfway across the country west-bound and wind up practically running the streets of Oakland without being able to find a rational answer for such things. "But why?"

"Told ya why, Damon. MC ain't too happy we lookin' elsewhere for guns."

"You said they were okay with it – that you'd go back when they had better cash flow." His insides tightened saying those two words – a reminder of how he started, where he came from and how he got to be where he was today.

"Clay wasn't gonna pull shit at his step-son's weddin'. Said he was all fine with it, but inside," LaRoy tapped the side of his head, "he was plannin' on lettin' us know he didn't like us takin' bread off their table."

"Why Veronica?" Damon asked. "Why not you?"

"Cuz, man," LaRoy began, "message is stronger when you target the ol' lady."

There was no question – someone had to pay for killing his daughter. But not without facts. Hardcore, solid facts – with no emotion getting in the way. "We wait," he solemnly said.

"What?" LaRoy was incredulous. "It was them, man. I know it. Car's taggin' the rider said he headed straight towards Charming before taking a detour. Lost 'im. Circled for a while then gave up."

"Contacts said rider was all in black.," Damon stated. "Didn't catch any bike markings. "I say we wait?"

"Waitin' is weak."

"Waiting is _wise_," Damon corrected the young man. "From what we know so far it was an accident - not intentional. She was your lady, but she was _my_ daughter. I make the decision."

LaRoy leaned on his boss' desk. "And _I_ know SAMCRO better than you. These guys are slick – makin' a hit look like an accident. Don't matter they didn't hit her – they caused her to fall through that glass and die. Somethin' about these guys that luck oozes outta their assses." The young, black man's eyes pleaded with the older one before him. "Damon, trust me. I know it was one of them."

Damon rubbed his chin, unable to avoid the look in LaRoy's face. Yes, his daughter's untimely demise had to be avenged, but he wasn't a man to make decisions flippantly. A long history running the streets from the mid-west to Oakland taught him that lesson very well. He couldn't let the emotion of the last ten hours take charge, but if there's one thing he did trust was LaRoy Wayne's knowledge of The Sons of Anarchy. "Say it _is_ them. Rider's unidentifiable so far. So…..which one?"

The corner of LaRoy's mouth went up in a grin of victory. This is what he wanted to hear. And after the interesting tidbit he overheard at Jax Teller's wedding last weekend, the punishment he had in mind would be more than appropo to the crime. "Just give me the go ahead - and leave the details to me."

~/~

**As usual, your reviews are most appreciated!**


	3. Chapter 3

**I know there's multiple POV changes, but I'm covering a lot of ground in a short time. Hoping to wrap it up in 2-3 more chapters**

**Okay...brace yourselves because I'm going..._there_**

**_~/~_**

**Chapter 3**

**Later That Afternoon**

"Just wanna say – welcome back, son."

Jax took a mandatory drag off his cigarette then nodded to Clay as warm welcomes hummed around the table. "So – how'd it go with Oswald?"

"Looks good," Clay replied, sliding to contract to Jax. "Negotiated a fair agreement."

Jax looked over the contract. "Price is higher than we agreed," he said, passing it to Bobby next.

"Lower price came with only forty nine percent ownership," Clay explained. "Corporation created for the land means Oswald and us are officers."

"And the fifty one percent gives us the edge," Bobby stated, passing the contract down to Juice.

"Bingo," Clay mused.

"Oswald don't have a problem with that?" Happy asked, taking the contract from Juice.

"Nah," Tig answered. "Rather have the additional purchase funds to get his construction business back up and runnin'."

"In exchange for trusting us to negotiate deals for any use on the land," Clay added. "Already got some big church right inside Lodi needin' space for an end of summer carnival next weekend and some early fall tag sale weekend after that. Then there's Fun Town. All we gotta do is sit back and collect the rent."

"Passive income is a beautiful thing," Opie chimed in.

"Dat it is," Chibs agreed.

Juice worked the mouse pad of his laptop. "Weather's lookin' good for the next two weeks – don't have to worry about gettin' rained out."

Bobby placed his hands on the table. "Gentlemen, looks like Oscro, Inc. is open for business – soon as we sign this deal."

Jax handed Clay a pen. "Since you're the VP of this corp – go right ahead."

All eyes were on Clay inking the document, except for Tig's – whose eyes were on Clay's right hand as it fought to grip the pen. Shit, he was getting worse. And the worse he got, the closer Jax edged over to the right until he landed at the head.

"Oh…..shit," Juice exclaimed as he scrolled through his laptop.

"What?" Hap asked.

"Checkin' the area police blotters. San Joaquin reportin' a hit 'n run. Guy on a bike jumped the curb last night at some outdoor café. One fatality. Chick lost her balance and went through the café's window."

Across the table, Tig felt a tremor ripple through his body, keeping it from reaching his hands by fiddling with an ashtray.

"Yeah…..so," Hap said.

"Person killed was identified as Veronica Pope."

Jax and Clay shared surprised looks. "Oh shit is right," Jax exclaimed.

"Veronica Pope?" Bobby asked. "As in…..the chick LaRoy brought to your weddin'?"

"More like, as in…..Damon Pope's daughter," Juice countered. "Big player in Oakland. Niners are pretty much his bitch."

"Thus LaRoy playin' future son-in-law," Clay stated, before thinking a bit. "This….guy on a bike? They get a description?"

Juice continued to read the article. "Nah. Nothin'. Least not reported."

Inside, Tig's guts began to churn as his hands gripped the glass ashtray. _Keep it inside,_ he told himself. _Don't say shit._ But past mistakes began to gnaw at his conscious – mistakes in the form of Donna Winston. One dead old lady on his watch was more than he could take – one who belonged to his brother. Add number two to the list that didn't only belong to a strained ally, but a man who practically ran the gang-riddled sections of Oakland.

"_No, no,"_ he silently told himself. _"I didn't know. Just like I didn't know it was Donna. I didn't hit her. Lost control of my bike. All they did was jump out of the way before I got back on the street." _Then his mind began to recount the events which the bourbon and unexplainable thoughts of Daisy McKay had erased. The screams. Glass shattering.

_Veronica Pope falling through the café window._

Shit, no, it couldn't be. It can't. No. Not again. He can't go through this again.

_"Guy on a bike? They get a description?"_

_"Nah. Nothin'. Least not reported."_

One saving grace. No one knew. Only him and his conscious that he knew eventually would eat at him so bad that he would have to fess up – like he did to Ope. But for now, he stayed quiet. Let it pass. It'll go away. At least for now, it'll go away. He just needed to cover up any loose ends – like little miss stiff-ass saying anything to anyone – especially her pussy-handed office mate – about him showing up at her house last night to hide out from being followed.

"Says here there was a vehicle damaged in the incident. Bike ran into it after it jumped back on the street and took off."

_Dammit,_ Tig's mind screamed. He had to get that dent smoothed, buffed and touched up. Quick. Soon. No one would know.

**~A~**

Happy knew.

Tig's destination last night, the dent in his bike, the uneasy way he shifted himself when he heard the news told him that Tig knew something about that hit and run last night. But be it not for him to call out a brother at the table - especially without facts. Right now, all he had was a gut feeling. That wasn't enough to go on. Brains Before Bullets.

Action before reaction.

**~A~**

Tig headed out as soon as church was over. With the details of Veronica Pope's death and the fact the perp was on a bike that collided with a parked car, he couldn't leave his bike for all and sunder to see the dent. And he couldn't very well work on it in the garage without question. Tomorrow. Sunday. When no one was up or around. He'd go to bed early tonight like a good little boy – maybe alone – then drag himself up at the crack of dawn, roll his Dyna into one of the bays and get it fixed.

But now, he needed to leave and come back later when the cover of night concealed everything. Where he'd go – well, he had one destination in mind. To be sure a certain little stiff ass with inviting lips and a pair of legs he could wrap twice around his waist kept her mouth shut about last night.

Out of the clubhouse parking lot he pulled – tearing down towards the Charming border and just outside it. Pulling off the main road and onto a maze of side streets until he came upon hers. The powder blue jag was like a beacon parked at the end of her driveway, signaling she was home.

But the silver Lexus parked on the street blocking it signaled she wasn't alone.

Only an ass stiffer than hers with hands soft as a baby's bottom could be the driver of that car. Preppy little douche was inside with her. Probably sharing a glass of some fancy wine whose name you couldn't even pronounce, dining on takeout sushi then capping off the night with a marathon of Antique Roadshow. Such a perfect little evening for a young couple of culture infatuated with each other. Tig wanted to wretch – especially trying to picture Evan-Douche moving in on Daisy, trying to cop a feel and a kiss then, if he's lucky, nailing her on the couch. But the guy didn't look like the spontaneous-sex type as he probably had to take his professionally pressed pants and organically dry-cleaned oxford shirt off one at a time, fold them and lay them somewhere flat so they wouldn't wrinkle first.

He remained idling dangerously close to her house while accelerating, blasting his presence through the chrome straight pipes and causing several dogs in the neighborhood to begin barking. He knew she'd hear. Knew she'd go to the window. And stayed there just long enough, his eyes fixed on that sheer-curtained covered window and counted backwards from ten. He didn't even get to five until he saw the curtains slowly move aside – and Daisy's face look from left to right.

He revved one more time to swing her gaze towards his direction – just enough to get the facial reaction out of her he wanted, and let his own presence be some sort of a silent message not to engage in any pillow talk with Evan Boy.

Satisfied with their visual exchange, he kicked up his feet, turned around and sped away.

**~A~**

"What's going on out there?"

Evan held a bottle of chardonnay and two wine glasses as he walked over to Daisy who was staring out her front window – the same window Tig was on the lookout from last night. She quickly let the curtains fall back into place. "Oh, nothing. Just a motorcycle."

He poured one glass and handed it to her. "They should ban those things. The noise. The pollution. The menaces to society that ride them. Like that guy at the farm yesterday."

Daisy took a dainty sip of the sweet, pale yellow liquid as she considered Evan's words. "Quite an…..unsavory individual." Her words, however, didn't stop her from licking her lips which his brutally touched last night.

"They do business with Elliott?" Evan asked, pouring his own glass.

"Yes…..unfortunately," she added for good measure. "They have an auction business they use Mr. Oswald's land for every month," she replied, still unable to refer to her boss by his first name – even in private.

"Huh," Evan pondered, drinking his wine then looking her over. "So….dinner. Thought maybe we'd drive down to Modesto. There's this five star Italian place that makes the best risotto. You can put that red Donna Karan dress on with those matching suede pumps."

His knowledge of designers and her wardrobe almost made Daisy think Evan was secretly gay. But it was his memory which impressed her as she had that very same outfit on his first day on the job – one she _specifically_ bought for Evans first day on the job - and had the Donna Karan tag still on it which he had noticed "Oh. Okay. Thought maybe you'd want to stay in, order out and rent something on On Demand."

He reached up to touch her face with the back of his finger, forcing her to see just how emasculating his hands were – which had nothing to do with Tig pointing it out. "Daisy– I used to bring clients there. Lots of big shots dine there Saturday night. Already called in for this perfect corner table where we can see everyone coming in. We dress to kill, dine on the most delicious veal saltimbocca you ever tasted, a bottle of Veuve Clicquot then make some contacts for Elliott. How's that sound?"

It sounded great. Not romantic great because it sounded like he was making a business dinner out of it, but that was okay. Delicious food, expensive wine, a dessert to die for – and intelligent conversation with a man who knew how to pick out clothes, speak intelligently, had a master's degree, drove something with _four_ wheels and, well, had well-groomed hands that suddenly annoyed her. She took it in hers and brought it down. "Sounds great." _Cultured_, she thought to herself. Something a certain someone could use a strong dose of.

"And you," he said, looking into her eyes, "can tell me more about Elliott's business in greater detail, everything I need to know to do a better job for him. You and I are going to be his right and left hand." With that, he leaned into kiss her, quickly, on the lips. I was firm, it was cool, it was the complete opposite of the tongue assault Tig gave her late last night. Just the way she should be treated this early in a new relationship. She still couldn't believe that vile biker took liberties and kissed her like that. Like…..like he _owned _her or something. But holy cow what she felt down…_there _when he did – she felt like _that _girl in those movies all those years back. Wrong. Very, very wrong. The wrong guy screwed up her life back in college - she wasn't going to succumb to that because of an incredible feeling. Evan could make her feel that way.

"Kiss me again," she inquired.

With a twinkle in his eye and a dimple in his tanned cheek, Evan leaned in to kiss her, holding it just a bit longer before he pulled away. Yeah, she felt something this time. She felt like yawning.

"Now…..go get changed Daisy-babe."

She cringed. She didn't like cutesy nicknames, but she really liked Evan, was a good catch in her opinion and, considering the length of her dry spell, wasn't going to screw things up. For that, she'd let it slide.

But somewhere between the living room and her bedroom closet she admitted she liked 'Daisy-Doll' better.

**Next Day**

**Sunday**

Cling. Clang.

"What the hell?" The three words barked out of Tig's mouth waking him from a restless night's sleep. Rubbing his eyes, he went to grab his pack of cigarettes on the nightstand when the time stared him in the face – eight a.m.

"Shit," he muttered, stumbling out of bed and into yesterday's clothes taking only time out to piss before heading out of his room. Down the hall, he passed the source of the offensive noise which thankfully woke him up. "Thought you moved out?"

Toby sat up from the bench press machine and wiped the sweat from his brow with his forearm. "Not yet. End of month. Um….did I wake you?"

He got a late start and help would speed things along. Even though the kid was a pain in the ass, he could trust him. He already witnessed Maniac chopping Dusty's head off – he'd keep quiet about this. "Yeah. Ya did. Now you owe me."

Dropping his head Toby muttered under his breath with surrender. "Of course I do."

"Shut up. Now…..you know about fixin' dents?"

"In cars?"

Tig gave him a perplexed look. "No. In my ass. Of course cars, dimwit."

Toby brushed it off. "Yeah, a bit. That guy in my neighborhood I learned from – used to buff out dents kids did to their parent's cars before they noticed."

"Good. You're hired," Tig said, walking away. "Meet me in the garage in five."

Obediently, Toby showed up in time to see the damage to the front tire fender of Tig's bike. "Piece of cake," he said.

Tig handed him the buffer tool. "Get to work. Fast," he emphasized, backing away to set the airbrushing gun and mix the right color. A quick blast should do it. Then he needed to take care of one last puzzle piece – regardless if the stiff ass had an overnight guest.

**~A~**

It was weird having a man in her bed. And after so long the last thing Daisy should be feeling was 'weird'.

Evan's picture perfect façade of handsomeness had faded in the early morning light, giving way to a not-so-attractive slack-jawed drool against her five hundred count Egyptian cotton sheets. The red dress, the food, the wine, the dessert, the networking – all had her feeling like everything was clicking on all cylinders with Evan that when he brought her home she felt tonight should be _the_ night. The only thing she feared was the one too many glasses of Veuve Clicquot might cause her to not be in control, to act out of character, to be that girl in those movies back in college. In her highly anticipated state, especially when Evan got her dress and matching lingerie off, she actually panicked over what he might think of her should she act like a woman who hasn't had any in a long time.

_"Maybe what you need is a good, hard screw to loosen up that stiff ass of yours."_

A nerve twinged up her spine hearing Tig's vulgar words. But what bothered even more was that he was right. Especially about this:

_"And from the looks of Boy Wonder, I think he might be too worried about breakin' a nail to do the job."_

No, not breaking a nail – more like how the buttons on his shirt were undone. Daisy started at the top before he backed up and unbuttoned from the bottom up. She was surprised she remembered or that she even cared. And she wouldn't have if Tig didn't joke about his possible fastidiousness. Damn arrogant, annoying, dirty biker messing with her first night with Evan and he wasn't even here!

And as for last night – it was…..nice. Touching, being touched, feeling naked skin against your own. And he _really_ kissed her – tongue and all – though she felt like she needed a wet-vac afterwards. And then…..the sex. Standard. Scripted. Condom on, missionary position and away they went and over in ten minutes.

And that ten minute exertion must've wore Evan out as he snored heavily near her ear. Sliding out of bed her hands automatically went to cover her breasts and down below while she pulled a mint-green robe out of her closet. Tying it on, she crept out of the bedroom and shut the door. In the kitchen, she quietly filled the stainless steel tea kettle when her phone rang. She dashed to the receiver, answering it mid-way through the first ring as not to wake up Evan. She needed a strong cup of cinnamon tea before facing him. "Hello?" she whispered.

_"You got company?"_

What the….? "How did you get my number?"

_"Same way I found your address,"_ Tig answered. "_Now – answer the question, doll?"_

"Don't…." she was about to finish with '_call me that'_, but shifted. No wasn't a time to argue with him. "Yes. I do. Not that it's any of your…."

_"Meet me at the Union 76 off the main road."_

Was he crazy? "What for?"

_"You'll find out when you get there. Just do it, Daisy."_

"And if I don't?"

_"Then I'll show up on your doorstep. Won't Mr. Wonderful just love that?"_

Asshole! Arrogant prick of an asshole! Of course, she didn't say it out loud, but it seemed her thoughts turned vulgar whenever Tig was around

_"Fifteen minutes,"_ he told her, not giving her a chance to answer. _"Be there_."

Fifteen minutes? Was he out of his mind? She needed a shower? And toothpaste? And her cinnamon tea. Hell, she'd need a triple espresso to face Tig. But the thought of his dragging his fume-riddled self into her home and explain his presence to Evan wasn't an option.

She tip-toed back into her room, grabbing a pair of twill shorts, short-sleeved chambray top and flats. Yeah, underwear would be good too. After throwing them on and giving her teeth a good brushing, she pulled her chocolate-cherry hair back into a sleek ponytail then went to the kitchen to leave Evan a note that she was going to pick up bagels.

Outside and in her Jag, she pulled out of the driveway and down to the Union 76 gas station. Even as it came into view, she saw the lone, wild-haired figure perched against his bike waiting for her, his crossed arms and serious face coming into clearer view as she pulled in and got out. She couldn't see his eyes, but felt them trail up her legs all the way to her breasts – sending that shiver from her spine all the way down…...there – just like the night he dared to kiss her. That shiver she felt when he came to her office to apologize and got dangerously close to her. That shiver that failed to show up when Evan made love to her last night. "What do you want?"

"Just to talk, doll."

To chastise him was futile at this point. It was obvious Tig Trager was going to do what he wanted, whenever he wanted. "We couldn't do it on the phone?"

"No. I don't like talkin' on phones. Gotta do with the other night?"

"Is that why you were stalking me last night? Revving your bike outside my house?"

"Wasn't _stalkin'_ you," he replied absurdly. "Came to talk, but saw lover-boy's car there."

"But you thought nothing about calling me out of my house early in the morning with him there?"

"Was he sleepin'?"

She folded her arms. "Yes. Why?"

"Let me guess – he blew one load then corked off."

Daisy felt her skin turn pink over his choice of words – moreso that he was right. "None of your business and don't speak to me like that. Now why did you drag me out to a…gas station on a Sunday morning."

He pulled his shades off, allowing her to see his eyes – a vibrant shade of blue. It stunned Daisy that such a mess could possess a pair of eyes so stunning. "Friday night – never…._ever_ gets mentioned. That I was at your place or why – understood?"

"Yes. Of course," she replied ludicrously. "Why would I say anything?"

"Loose lips, doll. Just keep it under wraps. I know your friends with Hap's old lady – you don't mention a word of this to her, to Elliott and especially not to David Beckham passed out in your bed."

In the brief time she had the displeasure of knowing this foul creature, Tig had never shown any outward signs of being nice. When he spoke it was always with a harsh undertone and usually an order. "Are you perpetually in a bad mood?" she asked.

"When people piss me off and put me there."

"Must be pretty much all the time," she shot right back.

Closer he inched, his way of making an intimidating point. "We all don't got cookie-cutter lives, sweetheart. Now, we good here?"

Those hypnotic eyes sucked her in, obliterating the several day's worth of stubble and the stench of nicotine clinging to him. "Yes. We're good. Like I said, you could've told me this on the phone."

"And like I said – I ain't a phone person."

"Sure you weren't just looking for a reason to see me."

He let out a quick laugh, looking up before looking back at her. "Don't flatter yourself doll. Evan may like skinny chicks with no tits, but I prefer somethin' I can grab onto."

Daisy could've cared less about the warning she gave him over a month ago as her hand came up. This time though, Tig wasn't fast enough to catch it before her open palm connected with his face. "Disgusting bastard," she bit out. She rarely, if ever, lost her cool or swore like that. It was unladylike. It was uncouth and unbecoming. But like she told herself earlier, this man pushed her buttons.

She braced herself for his reaction, but got none. His head just snapped back into position, taking the sting of the slap willingly. "Guess I deserved that."

She shook her head, unable to wrap it around the stigma of this man nor the reason why she even cared. "Why, Tig? Why do you despise me so much?"

"Never said I did?"

"So you_ like_ me?"

"Never said that either." Sliding his shades back on, he shrugged. "Nevermind. Sorry for draggin' ya out."

"Am I supposed to believe _that_ apology too?"

"Believe what you want – it's the best I got," he backed away and mounted his bike. "Better get back before Evan wakes up."

"Told him I was going out for bagels."

Tig grinned. "So you…..lied?"

"I couldn't tell him the truth."

"Good girl," he said, starting the engine. "So. You teach 'im?"

"Teach him what?"

"How to kiss you like a man?"

"You mean like you did?"

"Sweetheart," his voice purred. "I went easy on ya. No way can you take what I got to offer, so…..better stick with Donald Trump junior."

His blunt honesty and accuracy made her uneasy as she backed away from the dust cloud he left behind as he sped off

**~A~**

**Next Day - Monday**

Amanda clicked the button on her keychain, opening the back hatch of her Ford Edge, watching Tank leap down from the rearview mirror and happily make his way over to the picnic table full of people. Maniac was the first one to be greeted as the boxer jumped up and planted his paws on the big Nomad's shoulders while Maniac roughly rubbed his head.

In the mirror, she saw Hap ride by as he followed her in – backing his bike into his usual spot as she got out to meet him. He had swung off and looked over to the picnic table. "Bro, don't encourage him to jump," he yelled over.

But Maniac could care less, rough-housing with the big dog who was sucking up the attention. "Hey, until I can train some chick to greet me this way I'll take what I can get."

Waving it off, he met Amanda halfway. "What's your day today?"

"Heading to the store to do paperwork then off to see a bride-to-be for a flower appointment at eleven thirty then back. You?"

"Here all day – may have to head out if somethin' comes up."

"I'll call when I'm done with my appointment – bring you lunch?" she offered.

He had to admit that even though he liked looking forward to the end of a long, hard day to come home to her, he liked the mid-day visits. Watching her pulling up and stepping those damn legs of hers out of her car filled him with pride. The little blue eyed bitch was all his – spelled out in the ink on her shoulder and the ring on her finger. You couldn't have more blatant ownership than that – a feeling that was both satisfying and concerning.

He remembered Jax's wedding last weekend – noticing the eyes of his brother's from up north as they casually followed her. The way the Mayans and Niners looked with wonder as to who she belonged. They didn't have to wonder too long as his constant nearby presence all afternoon squashed all questions as to whose ink she was sporting on her shoulder. He kept her nearby, only letting her take off far enough to tend to Thomas, twirl Ellie around on the dance floor or give her over to her biological father when Clay asked for a dance. Sure it was a wedding and everyone present were either family, allies or business associates, but Hap wouldn't let his guard down for anything.

"Sure. Sounds good. Call first to be sure I'm here."

"Mmm, K," she said, reaching up to give him a kiss, earning them a bunch of cat calls and howls.

Clearing her throat and heading to her car, Hap turned around and walked towards the clubhouse entrance, causing everyone at the picnic table to scatter – except for Maniac, who continued to horse around with Tank. "Guess now ain't the time for 'ball 'n chain' jokes."

Hap snapped his fingers only once – instantly bringing Tank by his side. "Not if you want me to turn that Aztec machete on ya."

"Duly noted."

**~A~**

"Stayin' in today?" Tig announced as he walked through the back door of Clay's house and leaned against the counter.

"Nah," Clay replied, swinging his cut off the back of a chair. "Be down in an hour or so. Doctor's appointment."

Tig's eyes went right to Clay's hands. "Gettin' somethin' stronger?"

Clay shook his head. "Tryin' to hold out till September. Not sure how much stronger I can go without ODin'. Just a consult."

"Can you ride?"

"I'll push if I have to."

"Want me to go with ya."

"Thanks, mommy, but I'll do this on my own," Clay mused. "I_ do_ need ya to take a swing by the leather factory – make sure the Creek put two guys on watch."

Tig took a deep breath at the lame errand. But it was business. Clay's request. And by the looks of his broken hands, he wasn't sure how much longer Clay'd be giving them. "Sure. No problem."

**~A~**

The black Ford Expedition followed and waited. After two days of intense research and planning, a quiet, late-Monday morning seemed like the perfect time to do this. All they needed was to get the target – alone. It seemed impossible, but they'd been given a window of opportunity and took advantage of it. "There," the driver said. "That be the one?"

Slouched in the passenger's side, LaRoy dipped his sunglasses down to get a clearer view through the windshield. Oh yeah. _That_ was the one. You don't forget a face like that. All alone. Perfect. "Let's go. Keep a reasonable distance."

**~A~**

Riding alone on business was rare. There was always another brother by your side as you never know when shit was gonna go down. But this was just a routine drive by the leather factory to do a visual sweep then back. Still, Tig had an uneasy feeling. Checking his side view mirrors, he saw several vehicles behind him, both keeping a respectable distance. Pulling off the exit, he kept glancing at the mirrors, watching the car that was behind him continue down the highway, but not before a large, black SUV pulled off. Brushing aside his paranoia and remembering the lock was off on his forty five, he continued towards the leather factory.

But as soon as he pulled in, he felt it. As soon as he killed the engine, he swiftly dismounted and pulled his weapon. And then he heard it. The humming of an idling vehicle at the end of the driveway. And just like Clay had surmised, Sutter Creek had not one guy on lookout. Place was completely unsupervised and the surveillance cameras had yet to be installed. Slowly he stalked down the gravel driveway, gun in hand, the idling vehicle getting louder and louder, until he heard it pull into view and up the driveway.

**~A~**

"Now!" LaRoy ordered. "Gun it. Run the bitch down!"

**~A~**

Tig stood down, gun in hand, as the vehicle approached him – fast at first, then slowing down. The driver's side window rolled down, causing him to raise his weapon and the person sitting inside to raise their hands in surrender. "Whoa, whoa don't shoot!"

"Why you followin' me?" Tig barked.

"We're not, dude. My wife and I are lost. How do we get back to I-5?"

**~A~**

The Expedition hit the body with a sickening thud before spinning around to see the prone body on the ground. Bleeding. Unconscious. Hopefully dead. Laroy couldn't believe how easy it was or that he was able to utilize the information he overheard at Jax Teller's wedding last weekend:

_Breaking away for a moment from his crew, LaRoy stared at the gray-haired MC president dancing with a beautiful, young woman to Bob Seger's 'Main Street' as he stood behind two prospects – one Redwood, the other from Seattle – and overheard their conversation:_

_"Your prez got 'imself one sweet, young old lady," the Seattle prospect said._

_The Redwood prospect popped him in the shoulder. "Shut up, asshole. That ain't his old lady. It's his daughter."_

_"Huh?"_

_"That don't ever get repeated – not here, not in Seattle, not ever."_

His recollection was interrupted when a young woman came running from a set-back house. "Hey! Stop!"

"Outta here!" LaRoy shouted, but not before driving by the parked, white Ford Edge and tossing an envelope inside to land on the passenger's side. As they sped off, – leaving the hopefully dead body of Amanda Carson on the ground – LaRoy knew the five word note he left behind would be enough of a message.

_'A daughter for a daughter'._

~/~

**Would love to know your thoughts on this! :) **


	4. Chapter 4

**We're getting there! I'm sticking to 5-6 chapters and I mean it! Here we go...!**

**Chapter**** 4**

Two squad cars, paramedics and an ambulance descended upon the quiet street just rocked by tragedy. A small crowd of people had gathered at a respectable distance as an SUV black and white arrived on the scene. Ezra Phillips exited the vehicle, looking over at the paramedics tending to the victim still lying on the ground, as he made his way over to the sobbing woman on the cub. "Miss – I'm Lieutenant Phillips. Were you the one who called this in?"

The woman sniffed. "Yes. Oh my God, I can't believe this happened right in broad daylight – in front of my house!"

"Okay, calm down miss," Phillips said. "Can you describe the vehicle?"

"Uh….an SUV of some sort. Black. That was it."

"Did you get a plate number?"

"No," the young woman said, shaking her head. "It sped off too fast."

"Did you see anyone inside?"

Again she shook her head. "Windows were tinted." She shook her head faster. "This wasn't an accident. This was on purpose."

Phillips took a deep breath. "Why do you say that?"

"I don't know, it's just….. I mean, it's not like they tried to avoid her – not to mention they took off. I can't believe it. Maybe they were following her. Followed her here. We had an appointment. She's doing the flowers for my wedding."

The hair on the back of Phillips' neck stood up. "Flowers? She was a florist?"

The woman nodded. "Well, they sell flowers there. Petal To The Metal."

"Miss," Phillips calmly said. "What's the name of the woman meeting you here today?"

"Amanda…something. Don't remember her last name."

Officer Nate Sullivan had come over for instruction to which Phillips quickly said, "Stay with her. Get her statement in writing." He then went over to where the paramedics knelt after inserting an IV into the victim on the ground. "Gentleman, move aside for a moment please." They did and it was confirmed. It was Amanda Carson. "How is she?"

"Stable, but not for long. Think she's bleeding internally. Got an ambulance on its way. Needs to get to the hospital stat." The paramedic handed Phillips Amanda's purse. "She had this on her. Haven't gone through it for ID or to notify anyone."

"I'll take care of that," Phillips said, taking the purse and dreading the task. The young lady thought Amanda was run over on purpose. If that was the case, if this was a club-related hit – one that found its way into_ his_ town – this could get very, very ugly. Spotting Amanda's vehicle, he went over to inspect it for any evidence. Looking inside the open driver's side window, he noticed a white envelope on the seat. Reaching in, he saw that it was sealed with no notation on the front. He tore it open and pulled out a folded piece of paper with five cryptic words written on it_. 'A daughter for a daughter."_

_"Jesus Christ,"_ he uncharacteristically blasphemed. This was not going to be good.

**~A~**

"Yeah?"

_"Mister Morrow?"_

Clay sighed heavily. Though Lieutenant Phillips rarely – if ever – called him on his personal 'bat line', he wasn't in the mood for whatever crisis there was in Mayberry. Right now he sat in the waiting room of an orthopedic surgeon prepared to get the news that his hands were as good as fallen off which made him a bit ornery. "Can't talk, lieutenant," Clay replied. "At the doctor's."

"You need to get to St. Thomas – you and Mister Lowman – immediately."

Clay sat up straight in the uncomfortable vinyl and metal chair. "What?"

Phillips barely had a chance to finish explaining before Clay tore out of the doctor's office. He revved his bike with a grip so hard it should've brought him to his knees, but he didn't feel an ounce of pain as he called ahead to the club.

**~A~**

_"Jax!"_

Happy's alarming shout as he ran towards the garage brought out Gemma as well as a few other assorted, curious individuals. Jax appeared in his TM garb, wiping his hands on a stained cloth. "What's wrong?"

Tank was running behind his master – barking incessantly. But Hap didn't hear him. Didn't hear anything except Clay's brief words. _Amanda was hit. Get to the hospital. I'll meet ya there._ Rather than press his president for more details, he decided not to waste time. "That was Clay – Phillips just called 'im. Amanda was in an accident. They're bringin' her to St. T's right now."

Turning the switch on 'family' mode, Jax nodded, tossed the dirty cloth on the ground and pulled his cell out. "A'ight, go. Tara's on call. I'll give her a heads up."

Running to his bike, the big boxer in tow, Hap swung on and fired up the engine, but not enough to drown out the barking dog. They weren't dumb. They knew when something was wrong and Tank's canine senses were right on target. "Stay," Hap barked right back at him before spotting Miles walking by and pointed to the dog. "Watch 'im," he ordered before speeding out of the parking lot.

Minutes later a man who looked about ready to barge into hell and tear Satan to pieces entered St. Thomas Hospital by the emergency entrance. Immediately spotting Clay talking to Tara he made his way over. "Where is she? What happened?"

Keeping her calm, doctor's voice about her, Tara stood back between the two men and regarded Hap. "They brought her in and straight to surgery."

"Surgery? What…..?"

"Preliminary diagnosis shows she has a concussion, facial contusions, dislocated shoulder, fractured left hand and a couple of cracked ribs – one which may be broken and in danger of piercing her lung."

Hap raised his hands to run them over his head. She was alive, but she was fucked up bad. "That it?" he asked, keeping his voice as impossibly calm as possible

Tara shook her head. "She's also bleeding internally. That's why she was rushed right into the OR. They need to remove her spleen."

There was a nearby vending machine which Hap was itching to put his fist through. He had to hit something. Needed to hit something. "Then what?" It was two words too many for him to utter right now.

"We wait," Tara replied. "I'll let you know as soon as she's out."

Hap couldn't reply. He wasn't even looking at Tara, just barely hearing her. "Thanks," Clay said, jumping in. Tara nodded and left the men alone. "Wanna sit down?"

"I wanna know what happened." His voice was dangerously soft.

"Phillips didn't give me all the details. Just said she was hit."

Hap began to circle like a caged animal – his thoughts on nothing except his old lady – his wife – now having her body sliced open by a scalpel. "I gotta find out what happened."

The double doors of the ER exit automatically slid open and Jax walked in – his cut thrown over his mechanic's shirt. "Hey," he said, looking from Clay to Hap. "How is she?"

"Surgery," Hap replied, rubbing his head. "Gettin' her spleen out."

"Jesus Christ," Jax muttered, "what was she in a car accident?"

"It was a car, but it was no accident."

The three men turned to see Lieutenant Phillips approach from the other side with Officer Sullivan right behind him. Breaking away from the group, Hap went up to him. "What the hell do you mean?"

Phillips regarded the dangerous looking man who had several inches on him and a lot more rage. "We need to talk. In private."

**~A~**

Hearing the announcement on his intercom, Damon Pope felt a sudden heaviness in his chest. "Send him in."

Through the door, a crisp, white, untucked dress shirt and a pair of matching sneakers made LaRoy Wayne stand out like a neon sign in the moody ambiance of Damon's office. He held his hands out then brought them together. "It's done."

Standing up behind his desk, Damon regarded the proud looking young man before him. "And?"

"And…..it's done."

"Details, Laroy," Damon demanded.

Skittishly moving about the room, LaRoy's body language spoke before he even did. "Punishment fit the crime, although….we had to split asap. Some lady came runnin' outta her house. Didn't wanna be seen."

"That's not answering my question. Was it successful?"

Laroy shook his head. "Don't know. Like I said, we had to take off."

Circling around his desk, Damon approached the young man. "So, there's not just one, but possibly _two _witnesses – if this young lady isn't dead?"

"Mister Pope," LaRoy continued, as if hoping respect and politeness would buffer the situation. "It was the best shot we had. Found out where the bitch worked, followed her from there to where she got out of the car. Had her alone. Had to act."

_"No."_ Damon's voice was controlled, but furious. "You didn't act. You_ re_-acted. You ran down the daughter of the head of an MC – in a residential neighborhood - and didn't make sure she wasn't still alive?"

"I did what I was able to do."

"Which was a half-ass job - one I never should've given the green light on. Should've waited like I said, till we found out exactly who it was." He calmed down, long enough to walk over to the window of his office overlooking MacArthur Boulevard. He had come a long way from his violent beginnings in the early eighties – scratching and clawing for position, power and respect. No different from the young man standing behind him except LaRoy earned his spot a little easier. After almost two decades of paying his dues in a gang and rising in ranks, Damon was able to break free from the cold, hard mid-western streets for greener pastures in sunny California. His experience and toughness served him well as he made allies with some of the most notorious names in the area while adding to the bank he had earned over time. With enough money to back him, he was able to front a legitimate low-income property management business. Suddenly – the big guns were on his doorstep – including the upstart Niners – looking for financial backing in exchange for patrolling and protecting his investments.

And along the way, a wife and a daughter came into the picture. The wife wasn't cut out for anything more that wasn't a shade a green – which funded an expensive coke habit that eventually became her demise. But his daughter – his Veronica – was his joy. An innocent light and delicate presence to make past memories and present situations not as dark. His gang-style upbringing made him no beginner in the retaliation department – he knew first-hand how it could all backfire causing even more tragedy. And even though all the evidence surrounded Veronica's death pointed to an accident, there was someone indirectly responsible. And when LaRoy couldn't come up with that indirect source, he went a different route – 'a daughter for a daughter' path. Appropo, yes but killing women was not something he normally condoned.

But he made a decision and gave Laroy the go. Too late now to justify action over reaction.

Turning from the window, he jerked his head towards the door. "Go on – get out of here. And pray this don't wind up back in our front yard."

**~A~**

The little chapel inside St. Thomas Hospital became quite the popular place to hold impromptu church sessions. And right now, they needed the quiet resolute. Thankfully empty, the four men entered the room and closed the doors behind them. Phillips knew the best approach was direct and to the point as they were no doubt anxious for answers. "I'll come right out and ask, Mister Morrow. You and your club have a beef with anyone?"

Before Clay could answer, Hap cut in. "You think this is some kind of retaliation?"

"For what?" Clay said. "Just had a weddin' full of frenemies last weekend."

"Yes, I heard about your little…..soiree," Phillips chided. "A 'who's who' of most wanted conveniently located on an Indian reservation prohibiting local law enforcement to encroach upon."

"Your point?" Jax asked.

"Like I said," Phillips continued, "do you have any unresolved issues with any of your…..frenemies?"

The three Sons shook their heads before Clay offered an answer. "There's always some kind of lingerin' issue or another. Not enough to run over a woman who had nothing to do with it."

"Any…..confrontations with anyone at the wedding last weekend?"

"Not that I'm aware of," Clay said.

Hap was getting impatient with the run-around. "Just….spit it out. Who rammed my old lady's car?"

Phillips crossed his arms, taking a step back to do a visual sweep of the four men before his eyes landed on Hap. "It wasn't Miss Amanda's _car_ that was hit. _She_ was hit. By, according to the only witness, a black SUV."

Clay shared a look between Jax and Hap. Phillips caught the exchange and raised an eyebrow. "Care to share gentlemen?"

"One Niners," Clay said. "Outta Oakland."

"They were there last weekend," Jax quickly said.

"Yeah," Hap added. "No issues."

"Well," Phillips said, taking an envelope out of his pocket, "apparently someone has them with you. Found this tossed on Miss Amanda's drivers' seat. Mind you, boys, I'm only showing you this because this landed on your doorstep. According to the witness, this doesn't seem like an accident." He turned to Hap. "That SUV hit your wife – on purpose. Slammed right into her. Then halted for a moment before taking off."

Hap turned away, clasping his hands behind his head, obviously trying to control the rage while trying not to picture a one ton vehicle slamming into her. Everyone gave him a moment to compose himself before he turned back. "What is it you have?"

"I believe, Mister Morrow, that this may be directed to you," Phillips said, handing Clay the folded note.

"_A daughter for a daughter?"_ Clay read.

"Who else outside your club knows Miss Amanda's true identity?"

"Just you, lieutenant."

Two sets of eyes gave Clay the '_you told him?"_ look to which Clay raised a hand. "Situation warranted it at the moment," he assured them before looking at Phillips. "I assume you kept your end of the bargain?"

"I did. But obviously someone found out. The question is – _whose_ daughter was _your's_ injured for?"

Before anyone could conjure up a thought, the chapel door opened – Tara sticking her head in. "Amanda's done. Bringing her down to recovery," she said, looking over at Hap. "Doctor wants to talk to you."

Clay jerked his head towards the door. "Go. Be with your wife. We'll take care of this."

With Phillips present, Hap couldn't reply in the manner which he wanted – instead giving Clay an '_I _take care of this' look before leaving the room. When he was gone, Phillips looked back at the two men left behind. "Just so we're clear, gentlemen – _PD_ takes care of this."

Clay shrugged unknowingly. "Whatever do you mean, lieutenant?"

"Cluelessness isn't your strong point, Mister Morrow. You know exactly what I mean. This may have landed on _your_ doorstep, but it's in _my_ house. You won't do anything to bring a gang war into Charming."

The two older men stared each other down as Jax spoke up. "Shit. Pope."

"What?" Clay asked.

"Veronica Pope."

Clay didn't need any further expounding – but Phillips did. "Who is she?"

"Friday night fatality," Jax said. "San Joaquin County. Bike jumped a curb near an outdoor café. She fell through the glass front."

Phillips rubbed his chin. "You think her death's connected to this?"

Phillips watched Clay and Jax eye each other. He knew that look. Neither wanted to give out too much information. Wanted to keep enough to themselves to try to handle it their own way. He once gave into that – let the Sons_ handle_ a situation which he colluded in. What the Sons did outside the city limits that he didn't see or know about he learned to not concern himself with. But a hit and run just occurred in Charming – his town. And if this Veronica Pope's death was the reason for that, he was going to make damn sure further retaliation didn't find its way back inside.

"Not sure," Clay finally said.

"Alright, so…tell me who this Veronica Pope is the daughter of that would cause this?"

Clay inhaled deeply and folded his arms. "Big gun in Oakland. Name's Damon Pope."

For a moment, Phillips felt his heart in his throat. "_Damon Pope_? You sure on the name?"

Jax looked perplexed. "Yeah. Why?"

"He's _from_ Oakland?"

Clay shrugged. "Not sure if he was always from Oakland…..where you goin' with this?"

Suddenly, the tiny chapel felt constricted – as if the four walls were closing in to choke Phillips. Just like his past did every now and then.

Like it was doing right now.

"Nevermind," he said. "Let me look into this…..Damon Pope." His throat was suddenly too dry to say the name. "I'll be in touch. You do nothing until you hear from me, understand?"

Clay nodded passively. "Understood."

Not believing the MC president one bit, he turned to leave. "Give Miss Amanda my regards."

**~A~**

After giving the leather factory a once over, Tig called Clay to let him know the status. Clay told him to place a call to Sutter Creek to get some damn guys down there stat until their surveillance system was in place then to hurry up back to the clubhouse. From the tone of Clay's voice, he could tell something was going down.

Following orders, Tig ripped Sutter Creek a new one over the phone before heading back to Charming. Backing into his spot, he dismounted and headed inside, first noticing Tank laying flat on the wooden floor and looking sullen. "Hey – who died?"

The dog didn't move – barely even looked up at Tig as he sought out the empty clubhouse which only held Clay and Jax. "What's goin' on?"

Clay walked up to him. "We may have a war on our hands."

**~A~**

"Lieutenant?" Officer Nate Sullivan entered Phillips' office holding several printouts. "Here's the information you wanted."

Leaning forward, Phillips balanced his elbows on the desk as he looked at the top paper. Clasping his hands together, he dug them under his chin as the picture of Damon Pope stared back at him. He didn't have to read his dossier to know who he was.

He already did.

**~A~**

"We need to call church – everyone – right now," Clay stated.

"And do _what_?" Jax asked. "You heard Phillips. We stay put and stay out of it till we know more."

"Know all we need to know. We need to act."

"This ain't actin', Clay. "It's reacting. We have no proof Amanda's hit was a result of Veronica Pope's death. All we got is a gut feelin' and that ain't enough to go on. Besides – why would the Niner's or Pope think it was one of us on that bike Friday night? Plus her death wasn't intentional. It was an accident. The bike popped up on the sidewalk, she jumped back to get outta the way, lost her balance and fell through the plate glass. She wasn't targeted."

"But Amanda was!" Clay bit out. "Specifically. By someone in a black SUV and we all know that's the car of choice for our black brothers in O-Town. Maybe they think we're pissed about takin' themselves off our preferred buyer's list for a while. Veronica was at your weddin'. LaRoy knows we saw her and who she is."

Tig sat there in silence listening to his president and V.P. argue back and forth on the situation – the situation which only he knew the answer too. This was entirely his fault. He couldn't stay silent. He shouldn't have all this time. He should've fessed up after Juice found that police report. He had no idea that chick died because of his carelessness. He just sped off, fended off a chase and wound up on Daisy McKay's doorstep to hide out for a little while. He ducked his responsibility instead of taking it. He put bullets before brains.

Reaction before action.

"Fact is, Jax," Clay continued, "the Niners think we're responsible for this. But since they didn't have a description they didn't know who to pin it on so they came after one of the women. An old lady. _My_ daughter. Fittin' punishment. You gonna call that a coincidence."

"Clay?" Tig cut in.

"I'm not," Jax countered, ignoring Tig. "But think about what Phillips said. We retaliate back, they're just gonna come back with more firepower. In _this_ town."

"Clay?" Tig softly said again.

"I don't give a rats ass about Lieutenant Preacher Man," Clay snided. "Veronica Pope's death ain't on our hands. This club was hit and used a woman as a target because they thought it was."

"Clay!" Tig's voice stopped the two men from bickering.

"What?"

What, exactly? What was Tig supposed to say? How was he supposed to say it? This was going to rock too many worlds, but he had to bite the bullet and fess up. If there was ever a way to prove to himself he was capable of change it was now. The club covered up enough of his shit. They snuck those two, dead Mexican women out of the burned down Bluebird site for him. Clay stood by him when the ordered hit on Opie went south – killing Donna instead. He couldn't repay all the times his ass was rescued from the proverbial sling by sitting back and inviting a gang war into Charming because he had to, yet again, run from his responsibilities. He had to suck up and take what this life gave him – a life that came with a price – just like he had told Daisy yesterday:

_"Are you perpetually in a bad mood?" she asked._

_"When people piss me off and put me there."_

_"Must be pretty much all the time," she shot right back._

_"We all don't got cookie-cutter lives, sweetheart_

He could no longer blame others for who he was. The finger pointed at no one but him. _Change_. Change in the club. Change in authority. Change in business. If he was ever going to accept this, he had to change himself. He thought it started three weeks ago by apologizing to Daisy. But she was right – it was flippant and half ass. No, here is where his true love for the club would be tested- by offering himself up as the sacrificial lamb.

"It was me." Three simple words that would bring about a resolution or more death.

"It was _you_….what?" Clay asked.

Looking up from the table, Tig met Jax's eyes which didn't need any explanation before regarding his president. "Veronica Pope. I did it."

**~A~**

Thumb and forefinger rubbed the platinum wedding band he slipped on her finger almost a month ago through the heavily bandaged fractured left hand as he waited for her eye lids to open and see those blue eyes which altered his life. "C'mon, A. Open up. Show 'em to me."

Amanda had woken up in recovery enough for them to take her out and into a private room where she had slipped off into a slumber again. But she had enough time to rest. Hap needed her to open her eyes – to prove she was okay. Then she could go back and sleep as long as she wanted. He needed to see them. Needed to see those damn blue eyes of hers to talk to him. "Amanda," he hoarsely whispered. "Wake up, girl. Just a moment."

He tried to remain strong, in control. Weakness was a man's downfall and he refused to show it – even if the only person in the room was his wife trying to fight off the effects of anesthesia. But what he displayed on the outside was a far cry from what was tormenting him inside. _'I won't lose another one_," he told himself. '_I won't. I can't. Not her. Especially her._ _Nevermind blowin' my brains out at her grave - I'll take a knife to my own throat over her dead body._'

But those internal thoughts were foolish as they would do nothing except penetrate that hard, outer shell from the inside out. And all that talk a few days ago about death plans – plots, funeral arrangements, wills – shit, was this some sort of omen or something?

"Mmmm."

The sound was tired, broken and painful. Hell, she was going to be in a shitload of pain from an SUV slamming into her. But it obviously didn't hit her too head-on else he'd be picking out her casket right now. His other hand gripped the metal railing of the hospital bed over that thought. "Hey girl. Over here."

And there he saw them. Those eyes. Not the vibrant, vivid blue that lit up when he walked through the door for an unexpected visit at the store or the sultry, liquid shade they are before rolling back in the throes of an orgasm. No, they were flat. Dull. Their usual shine gone. But they were open. She was alive. Bruised, broken, cut open and stitched closed – yet…..alive. "What?" she rasped out as her eyes focused. "What happened?"

Tara popped her head in. "Hey. She awake?"

Hap's head spun towards the door then back to Amanda. He didn't want to take his eyes off her for one moment. "Yeah."

"I can arrange to have you stay the night if you want. Bring a comfortable chair in."

Hap regarded the good doctor with grateful eyes and a nod. "That'd be good. Thanks."

With a warm smile, Tara slipped out as Amanda repeated her question, again, getting drowsy. "Hap, what…."

"Shhh," he hushed her. "Rest now. Talk later."

**~A~**

"Come again?" Clay's voice was incredulous after hearing Tig's explanation.

Tig couldn't even look his long time brother in the eye and he sure as hell wasn't going to look at Jax who most likely had a more condescending glare for him. "Just what I said."

Standing up, Jax circled the clubhouse. "You kiddin' me? You knew this since Saturday and didn't tell us?"

He already felt like shit. He didn't need the little prince lording over him with his righteous attitude. "I didn't think it be anythin'…."

"Key words, Tig," Jax bit out. "_Didn't think_."

He had swallowed enough and stood up, chair toppling over. "A'ight, I know. I get it. I fucked up and now I'm fessin' up."

Jax stood, mouth pursed tight and his nostrils flared. "A little late."

"I'm sorry," Tig emphatically said.

"Yeah?" Jax asked. "Tell that to your brother sittin' by his wife's hospital bed. What'ya think he's gonna do when he finds out you perpetuated this? That you almost got his old lady killed, huh? He's gonna drag your sorry ass out to the parking lot and beat you within an inch of your life – _if_ you're lucky."

"I'll deal with Hap," Tig stressed, right now wanting to beat Jax within an inch of _his_ life – regardless of the mayhem his actions just caused. No, not his action – his _reaction. _"Right now, we gotta deal with Pope."

"Oh, you givin' the orders now?" Jax asked.

"We gotta take care of this."

"Yeah, maybe we should just send you in there," Jax snided. "Waltz you right into Pope's office, have you confess and let him deal with the _right_ person this time!"

Tig had enough. He was sorry. He was remorseful. He was sick over what had transpired. But he wasn't going to be Jax Teller's whipping post a moment longer. "You little shit," he seethed, going after Jax.

Agitated, Tank had begun to bark, pacing back and forth at the two men tussled before Clay decided he had enough. "Enough!" His voice shook the rafters and sent Tank into a barkfest. "You too," he told the dog who dipped his head and circle before positioning himself next to Clay as Jax had long since pushed Tig off him. "Ain't gonna solve anythin' fightin' with each other. We gotta figure out how we're gonna approach this."

"We can't go after 'em," Jax stated. "Especially not Pope. I don't like it, but we can't. Long story short, _this_ douchebag," pointing to Tig, "was responsible for his daughter's death – intentional or not. They had every right to retaliate. We would've done the same thing."

"We _wouldn't_ have went and tried to kill that someone's old lady," Clay sternly corrected.

Jax snorted, then looked at Tig. "Least not on purpose – right?"

"You fuckin' little prick," Tig spat out, going after Jax again, this time connecting with his cheek. "Gonna keep throwin' Donna up in my face?"

Holding his jaw, Jax backed up as if knowing he crossed a line but didn't care. "Whatever. Point is – we gotta find a non-bloody way to deal with this."

Clay raised a brow at his step-son. "You think that's gonna satisfy Hap?"

"If it's for the good of the club – yeah."

"And how do you intend to handle it, V.P.?" Clay asked. "Go and have a tea 'n crumpet sit down with Pope?"

Tig shrugged, brushing off the after-effects of his beef with Jax and getting right back into club mode. "Why _not_ a sit down?"

Jax glared at him. "Yeah, right. You don't stroll into a street kingpin's lair and say '_let's talk this out'_."

"He's right."

Three heads turned towards that comment as Lieutenant Phillips walked into the sudden calmness of the clubhouse. "You can't walk up to a ganger and demand an audience," Lieutenant Phillips said as he placed the print-out with Damon Pope's picture and profile on one of the round tables. "But I can."

~/~

**Hope you like where I"m going with this and that you're enjoying. Love your reviews!**


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm hoping to finish this before the premier, but that's going to be tough. Oh well. Anyway, I understand it seems as though everything is getting wrapped up nice and neat and fast, but in order to keep this story story things need to move at AU lightening speed! I don't claim to know how things work on the street, so I take creative licensing for this.**

**Note: The incident Phillips and Pope discuss from their past is referenced in Chapter 36 of 'The Garden of Evil' for those of you who want a refresher!**

**Enjoy & review!**

**Chapter 5**

The impromptu drive west was something Ezra Phillips both relished and dreaded. Tuesday morning found him Oakland-bound on Interstate 580 by ten a.m. Out of his jurisdiction, he was dressed in his civilian best as his modest Ford Fusion took him to where his present was going to collide with his past.

And that collision course had Charming – and the Sons of Anarchy – smack in the middle of it.

There was no question this was something he needed to step in and do, convincing himself it was for the town he was in charge of protecting and not for its resident motorcycle club. But convincing that same fact to Clay Morrow was quite the hard sell:

"_Our club's on the line here, lieutenant_," Clay had said after Phillips spilled the details of his plan for a peaceful restitution. "_You don't do anything 'til we vote_."

"_I'm not interested in your club's involvement in this, Mister Morrow,"_ Phillips had replied. _"My interest is Charming – plain and simple. I don't need your approval – or your vote – to do what I need to do to protect this town."_

Clay had told him everything he could within reason – Tig's involvement, their undisclosed business with the Niner's and why they thought the Sons would've directly targeted Veronica Pope because of it. Clay had been vague – careful not to disclose any exact details as to the nature of this business, but if Phillips was going to be successful – and pull the Sons out of yet another sticky situation – he needed some basic facts to negotiate with.

Because Damon Pope kept a legitimate property management business, he was able to locate him. Getting there was easy. Getting inside and most likely past the heavy artillery of security would be a challenge. But if Pope was there, he knew of one sure way to get an audience with him.

Driving down MacArthur Boulevard, an understated, two-story brick building came into view. A black awning perched above a glass front door – no doubt bullet-proof – with a gated adjacent parking lot. But Phillips opted to park across the street in front of a hair salon. Exiting his Fusion, he glanced around the mainly African-American neighborhood. Not as dilapidated as the one he grew up in Section, Alabama or the violence-filled streets of south Detroit, but he knew a low-income area when he saw one. A small group of kids rode their bikes in a vacant, dusty lot – enjoying the last moments of summer. He tipped his head to two ladies who passed him en route to the salon, receiving an appreciative smile in return. Young, unemployed men hung out in front of local shops smoking cigarettes and no doubt wondering if the streets would eventually claim them – much like they did him.

Crossing that street, he found himself on the sidewalk in front of the brick building. The sign _Day-Town Property Management _was written in white lettering on the black canvas of the awning. Phillips had no choice but to let the past cause a small chuckle escape him. Pulling on the front door, he found it locked as he looked up at the two surveillance cameras which pointed towards where he was standing. Undeterred, he rang the bell. He knew Pope wouldn't be the one to answer and let him in. No, that job was set aside for the muscle which no doubt surrounded him.

"_Can I help you_?" the voice on the intercom next to the door said.

"Yes you may," Phillips replied with his usual, southern politeness. "I would like to know if Mister Pope is available?"

"_Say what?"_ the voice quickly shot back.

"I'm sorry. Did you not understand my question the first time?" Phillips didn't want to burn bridges, but he was older and wiser and not about to indulge some young gun in a war of words.

"_State your business,"_ the voice said.

Staring at the intercom, Phillips decided what to say – which was nothing. He'd just stand there and…wait – letting whoever it was upstairs continue to watch him on the cameras. Sooner or later, the person attached to that voice would give into curiosity and come downstairs. He had no doubt about that – especially if they was looking to push his muscle around protecting their boss. Keeping his back to the door, he put his hands in his pockets and casually cased the neighborhood, whistling softly and reciting some scripture in his mind for reinforcement. The sound of feet bounding down steps through the door behind caused him to stop whistling and smile. He turned as the door was unlocked and opened – a tall, beefy young man blocked his path. "What you want, pops?"

Phillips had to snort. _Pops?_ Heading towards his forty seventh year, he was far from elderly, but to the twenty-something brother towering over him he was considered middle-aged. "What I had originally stated," Phillips replied with elegant softness. "I would like to know if Mister Pope is available."

"For what?"

"For a discussion?" Phillips raised an admonishing brow. This kid was too full of bravado. The Cash Flow Po$$e would've chewed him up and spit him out. Gangs today, Phillips admitted to himself, were more about show than substance. Their outer shell was a hard front to their soft insides. Most didn't have the stomach for the real deal when it all went down. This kid was no doubt one of those disillusioned members who thought he had it made in a comfy position as a watch dog in a secure building. At his age, Phillips would've run circles around this kid in terms of rep and street cred.

"About what?"

"Young man, don't you know it's rude to ask about something that isn't your concern?"

"Mister Pope _is_ my concern, old man."

Enough playing with words – Phillips went for the direct shot. "Very well. Then perhaps you should do your job and announce to Mister Pope that someone is here to speak with him."

The young man stood back, sizing Phillips up with his eyes. "Yeah?" he snided. "And just who are you to Mister Pope?"

"Fine." Phillips reached into his pocket, causing the young man to reach behind his waist – no doubt to grab the gun stuck in there. "I wouldn't go for that gun, my young brother," Phillips said, opening his wallet to reveal his badge. "Not a good idea at all."

Blowing out a frustrated breath, the young man looked at the badge. "You're not Oakland PD."

"No, I'm not. Doesn't matter. I'm here on _unofficial _business."

"If it's _unofficial_, then Mister Pope ain't gonna see you."

Phillips pocketed his wallet. "Very well. Then let's go another route. Turn around, march upstairs and tell Mister Pope someone is here to see him."

The young man crossed big, muscular arms across his chest. "And who may that _someone_ be?"

Ezra James Phillips never thought he'd hear this name pass through his lips. " E-Z from Detroit. See if that jars his memory."

**~A~**

Amanda would never use the term '_felt like I was hit by a car'_ ever again – especially now that she knows what it feels like.

Everything hurt – even the hairs on her head. Her left hand was bandaged as well as her mid-section, her shoulder felt like it was on fire and the right side of her face felt like someone rubbed it with sandpaper. She knew where she was. She knew what happened, although the last thing she remembered was a flash of black before blacking out. She remembered waking up briefly throughout the night to the sight of a boot perched upon the side of the hospital bed and hearing the slow, steady breathing in the chair next to her. Her husband's presence was felt before it was seen and that presence hadn't left her all night.

But the chair was empty now - of a body at least. The leather cut tossed over the back told her he was still here in the room as he wouldn't roam the halls – or anywhere else for that matter – without the security of his patches. She wasn't that groggy to point that fact out to herself. A flushing toilet followed by running water confirmed her assumptions before the bathroom door in her private room opened. Her eyes met his – the look in them concerning her. "What time is it?" she asked.

Hap pulled his cell out and flipped it open. ""Little after eleven." He sat back down and rolled the tray closer to her. "C'mon, A. Had enough rest. Need to eat somethin'."

"It hurts too much to eat," she replied, wincing at the fatigued pain of her own voice. She lifted her bandaged hand. "How bad?"

"Fractured. Two of your ribs too. Had to reset your shoulder in its socket. Nothin' broken though."

She was surprised. She did briefly remember curling her body down, as if to cushion the impact of the car which is why her mid-section to a beating rather than wind up with two broken legs. Her right hand then inched down her hospital gown and rubbed a spot which hurt the most. "What did they do?"

He took the protruding fingers of her bandaged hand and rubbed them. "Had to remove your spleen."

She rubbed the area which was cut open less than twenty four hours ago and sighed heavily. "How long do I have to stay here?"

Hap shrugged. "Not sure. Today's Tuesday. By Friday, maybe."

That'd be good. She had to make arrangements at the store. Bills had to be paid. The dog! "Where's Tank at?"

Hap rolled his eyes. "Stayin' at the clubhouse – probably spoilin' 'im like a little bitch."

Now she rolled her eyes before her fingers untwined from his to rub his inked forearm. "Am I gonna be okay?"

"Gonna be fine, A."

She rubbed his hand right back. "How 'bout you?"

Those eyes of his met hers – causing her to think back to the first time she saw them. Last November as dusk was turning to night time at the Charming Cemetery after coming upon him holding a gun under his chin. Those eyes were wild – furious he had been caught, but they also spoke of an unknown fear. She saw that fear now, although a little more relieved. "A'ight," he replied.

Amanda knew he was lying, but didn't press the issue. "Do you have to go to the club?"

He shook his head. "Nah. Been checkin'in. Clay told me to stay put."

"Do the police know what happened?"

The hesitation was slight, but Amanda had used the nine month's she had spent with him wisely. She studied him carefully over time to know that even the slightest hesitation indicated a thought process. "Nothin' yet."

That she knew he was _definitely_ lying about. "Okay, so…..what does the _club_ know?"

He gave her that look – the one knowing that he wasn't dealing with a chick who couldn't put two and two together – even on painkillers.

"You wanna do this now, A?"

She snuggled down in her bed and faced him. "Got nothing better to do."

**~A~**

A lethal combination of tequila and tail did nothing to erase the events of the last few days.

It was almost mid-day and Tig was still in bed – his head throbbing and the covers yanked to on one side. That could only mean one thing. "Shit,"he muttered, slowly flipping over on his back enough for his arm to touch one belonging to someone else. Hopefully, it was female. He didn't want to think he was too drunk to make _that_ much of a mistake. "Hey." Slight movement and a muffled groan told him that whoever was beside him had about as much to drink as he did. "C'mon, sweetheart. Need to make tracks."

His eyes remained open just enough to see who it was getting out of his bed. It was never a name – just facial recognition. Five foot eight, brunette, sick curves, great tits – a woman's body – not model thin and flat chested. Though, he had to admit Daisy had a decent ass and a pair of legs up to her neck. Unbelievable! He just spent the night doing whatever he couldn't remember with the nice piece hastily throwing her skimpy clothing on and his first thought was of Daisy McKay.

Disgusted, he groaned and rolled back on his stomach – relieved when he heard his dorm door open and close. He should get up, shower, get dressed and do something with himself until Phillips returned from some fool mission he and the club had no say in. But after what he did, he had no right to say anything.

Right now – he'd gladly walk into Damon Pope's office with a bulls-eye on his back and hand him a gun than have to confess to Hap what he had done.

**~A~**

"Ready for lunch, Daisy-babe?"

In the middle of her boss' scheduling mess, Daisy was too stressed to even be bothered by Evan's cutesy pet name. "I'll have to pass. I'm swamped here. I have to rearrange Mister Oswald's schedule. He has some farm and constructions appointments which clash with his mayoral ones."

Evan perched himself on the edge of Daisy's desk and surveyed the carnage of papers, files and open appointment books. "Can't you finish it after lunch?"

She shook her head. "No," she said, her eyes on the computer screen as she worked the mouse. "I have to put them in the book, schedule them in Outlook then synch them to Mister Oswald's phone."

Evan stood up, smoothing out his trousers before then had a chance to wrinkle. "Guess I'll drive down to a few of the building sites Elliott put bids on."

"Bring me back something though?" she asked.

"Can't," he said. "Probably take me till end of day. Call in some delivery."

She was too in 'work' mode to bother with how inconsiderate he was. He knew she was going to be stuck here and couldn't run a sandwich back to her? Brushing it off, she stood up – smoothing her own dark, rose shirt dress in the process to which Evan wrinkled his nose. "Not crazy about the dress."

Daisy froze before spinning halfway in her eggshell white slingbacks. "Excuse me?"

Evan looked to re-route his course. "No, it's just…..the color's nice – just pink clashes with the red color in your hair. That's all."

That's_ all_? Why didn't he just lace into a litany of how skinny and flat-chested she was like that obnoxious, dirty biker? She shopped and dressed impeccably. How dare he be so frank with her so early in their relationship? Or did sleeping with him give him some sort of carte blanche to dictate his opinion. "The red in my hair are _undertones_, not _color_," she corrected. "And this is _rose_, not _pink_."

"Alright," Evan surrendered with his hands up. "Babe, I'm sorr-"

"Don't call me that please," she finally told him, hoping the politeness would buffer it.

"What? Whoa, you really _must_ be stressed."

Feeling guilty, Daisy covered her face with her hands. "I'm sorry, Evan. I didn't mean to let all that out at once. I….I guess I am stressed."

"Got something for that later tonight."

Outwardly, she blushed the same color as her dress. Inwardly, she hoped to develop a headache later on tonight. Fortunately, she was saved from coming up with a retort when Elliott entered the office. Evan jumped on him right away. "Elliott, was just coming to see you next. Gonna head on down to those three sites and get a handle on where our bid stands."

"Thanks. Need to get back in the saddle on construction," he said, turning to Daisy. "I'm off to city hall – you able to get the scheduling sorted out?"

"I'm on it. I'll finish it end of day."

"Good, oh…by the way…did you hear about Amanda? Just got back from the club to pick up papers from Clay. She was in an accident yesterday afternoon. Got hit by a car."

A hand sporting her standard sand-colored polish flew to her mouth. "Oh my God. She alright?"

"Busted up a bit, but recovering. She's at St. Thomas'. Listen….gotta run. Email my messages to me."

Without thought, Daisy grabbed her purse and pulled her keys out. "I gotta get down there."

"Hey, wait," Evan said, catching her by the wrist. "Where you going?"

"To the hospital to visit her."

Evan thought a bit. "She the brunette who was sitting here that day I showed up for my interview?"

"Yes, that's her."

"Amanda Carson, right? Owns that flower and gift shop in town?"

Daisy looked at him curiously. "How do you know?"

"Oh, when I was orientating myself with all of Elliott's ventures and such I came across a file when he was trying to have The Charming Gardens made an historical landmark. Her name was on the list of volunteers. You're going now?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Because you were too swamped to have lunch with me, that's why. Go see her after work. She'll still be there. Look, I'll go and bring you back something before I head out."

With that invisible rod up her spine, Daisy primly sat back down and composed herself. "No, that's okay. You go on. I'll see if someone from the stables is going out later. Go do what you gotta do."

With a wink, he bent over the desk and kissed the tip of her sloped nose. "Call you later."

Daisy sat there and waited – waited for Evan to walk to his Lexus, start it up and disappear down the long driveway. She then counted to ten before grabbing her purse and keys again, locking up the office and heading for her own car to do what she had to do.

**~A~**

"I'll be damned." Damon Pope didn't move an inch from behind his desk when a reminder of his violent beginnings walked into his office.

"It really is you," Ezra Phillips replied.

Recognitions aside, Pope moved around the desk. "How've you been, EZ."

Phillips held up a hand. "Haven't gone by _that_ name in a long time. But, I see your old street name's alive and well on your marquee downstairs – _Day_?"

Pope shrugged. "I don't forget where I came from."

"Neither do I," Phillips retorted. "But then I also remember where I am – now."

"A cop," Pope said with surprise. "How'd that come about?"

Pope watched Phillips lower his head, obviously pulling up a memory that were still raw with both of them till this day. "After Jerome was killed – that did me in," Phillips said. "Caused me to change my ways. We went through too much together. Remember the night I met Jerome in Kentucky – about to get piped by some prospect."

"You saved him that night."

Phillips just smiled politely at the statement. "He didn't know a damn thing about me, but took me with him. Said he had a cousin up in Detroit who could hook us up in the Cash Flow Po$$e."

"And I turned out to be that cousin," Pope added.

"And….here we are – on different sides of the law."

Pope crossed his arms. "Bold statement. This property management business is legit. Puts a lot of roofs over people's heads."

Phillips shook his head. "Wasn't talking about _this _business, Damon. And you know it. "

Casting his head down, Pope shook it back and forth wearily. "Look, I got a real, long day today, EZ. Just state your business and let's get on with it."

"Your daughter, Day," Phillips said, using Pope's Po$$e name. "Veronica. I heard. That's how I traced you."

Pope's face cast a weary look. "Waking her tonight."

"I'm so very sorry, my brother. However, it wasn't her death which brought me here. But the alleged….vengence for it." Before Pope could answer, Phillips reached for his badge and held it up. "Yeah, I'm on the other side of the law now. Spent several years in the city we ruled way back when, but found my way out west. Small, quiet town called Charming. Ring any bells?"

**~A~**

A bouquet of gardenias in one hand and a French vanilla iced coffee in the other, Daisy stepped inside the hospital room and tapped on the partially closed door. "Knock, knock?"

"Come on in."

Hoping to put a cheerful smile on her friend's face, Daisy walked in only to meet the curious stare of a half-turned head. "Looks like you've got company." Gemma stood up from where she stood guard by Amanda's bedside and hooked her purse strap over her shoulder. "I'll leave you two to your girl-talk," she said with a syrupy sweetness which could've given Daisy diabetes. Gemma's heels clicked against the cold, flat tile floor until they faded down the hallway.

"Close the door a bit?" Amanda asked.

Daisy did as told then moved to the side of the bed. "I just found out from Mister Oswald," she said, sitting in the easy chair and crossing her legs. Gently, she took Amanda's bandaged left hand. "How do you feel?"

"Like I was hit by a car."

Dumb question, Daisy thought to herself as she gave her banged up friend a once over. "Did they catch who did this?"

Amanda shook her head. "No, they didn't."

"Did you see who did?" Daisy saw Amanda's uneasiness at the questions and reigned herself in. "I'm sorry. Don't mean to press."

"It's okay," Amanda said, yawning and sinking her head deep into the pillow. "I didn't see anyone. Only one witness. Windows were blacked out. I'm sure it's being investigated."

Daisy knew that tone. Amanda used it before when she wanted to convey something she didn't want to get into details about. And despite her injuries, she noticed Amanda looked a too at ease for someone who was practically run over. Considering who she's connected to, Daisy had to wonder if what happened to her was club-related, but she wouldn't dare ask.

"Those for me?"

Realizing she was still clutching the clear vase of gardenias, Daisy held them up to her. "Yeah, I remembered. They're your favorite," she said then placed them on the side table. "I also remembered how much you love coffee." She held up the cup of iced coffee. "Not sure if you're on some special diet here."

Perking up a bit Amanda gingerly sat up, wincing in pain then took the coffee with her right hand. "A little caffeine won't hurt," she said, taking a slow sip. Looking as if she just drank in heaven, she looked up at Daisy. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"And your timing is impeccable," Amanda added, eyeing the door.

Daisy followed her eyes then back, just catching on. "Oh….you mean Gemma?"

"Don't get me wrong – I'm grateful for the company, but Gemma is like a strong narcotic. Needs to be taken in small doses. Speaking of which," she winced again, "painkillers are beginning to wear off."

Daisy was at a loss for words, not sure what to say. "When can you go home?"

"Hopefully, Friday," she said taking another sip before settling back into a prone position. "Let's not talk about me. Tell me – how are things with you and Evan?"

Daisy knew Amanda was deliberately trying to change the subject and complied. "Oh, um….they're okay."

Amanda didn't look like she was buying it. "Just…_.okay_?"

"No, really. It's good."

"So, any interesting developments?"

Amanda's leer made Daisy blush, unable to keep anything from the sharp wife of a biker. "Well…..Saturday night we…..moved up a rung on the ladder." Her blush was pinker than her_ not_-pink dress over the fact she actually just admitted that.

"Yeah?" Amanda said, struggling out of her grogginess. "So...how was it?"

"Amanda!"

"Sorry. I'll take my own 'no questions' advice."

Well, having sex for the first time in a long time wasn't really along the lines of divulging the habits of a motorcycle club, Daisy thought to herself. "It was nice," she replied after a few moments.

Amanda took another sip of coffee before placing it on the tray in front of her. "_Nice?"_

"Why?"

"Nothing."

"No, tell me. You said _nice_ like it's a...bad thing."

"It isn't," Amanda was quick to respond. "It's just that...well...having sex for the first time with someone new shouldn't be _nice_. Know what I mean?"

Daisy cleared her throat, wondering how to get around this topic without sinking to the floor and slithering under the hospital bed. She knew she shouldn't, but couldn't help it. "You're speaking from experience?" she asked her friend. Now it was Amanda's turn to blush, but hers was accompanied by a smile so wicked it made Daisy momentarily jealous. "Wow," Daisy said low. "It was..._that_ good?"

Still, Amanda was coy. "Well, it sure as hell wasn't _nice_. It still isn't."

"Okay, we need to change the subject," Daisy quickly said.

"It actually took my mind off the pain."

"Sorry, it's just...I'm not used to talking about _sex," _she whispered the word, "so openly. Let's just say we had a great evening, got dressed up, went to this five star restaurant, drank wine, ate delicious food, mingled with some people for Mister Oswald so the evening just seemed so...perfect that I thought the time was right." She twisted her sand-tipped fingers together as she spoke, her shyness over being so frank about her sex life evident- even with a friend whose own sex life probably belonged in a category all its own.

"But...?" Amanda filled in.

Again, Daisy couldn't fool Amanda. Having hot sex on a regular basis with a felon/biker gave her a bit wisdom, she supposed. "I guess I was expecting that..._wow_, moment."

"Daisy?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you love him?"

Daisy opened her mouth, then clamped it closed to think before opening it again. "I love things about him," Daisy justified. "He's intelligent, educated, fashionable, punctual, organized..."

"Geez, Daze. Sure he isn't gay?"

"No!" she defended, then snickered. "He's just...

"Well-groomed?"

"He admitted he gets manicures," she replied with a snicker. "Just cuticle treatments and a buffing. A lot of men do."

"Not the ones I know."

"Hmph," Daisy snorted. "Maybe one of them should."

"I can only imagine who you're talking about," Amanda replied with mirth. "Seen him lately?"

_Well, yes I did,_ Daisy thought. _As a matter of fact I hid him out in my house for an hour Friday night, allowed him to stick his tongue halfway down my throat, found him sitting outside my house the next day and ordered me out of the house un-showered Sunday morning to secretly meet him at a gas station._ "Few times. Came by the farm with Clay to see Mister Oswald. No a big deal. Don't even know why you're asking. It's not like I'm interested nor…..ever was for that matter. I mean….."Daisy cut off at the smirk on Amanda's face. "What?"

"Awful chatty response for someone who _isn't_ interested."

"I'm not," Daisy insisted. "I have Evan now. He's practically a male version of…..me. We have _so_ much in common."

"Okay, you sold me," Amanda said, her eyelids getting heavy again. "But just remember one thing – something I'm living proof of."

"What's that?"

"Opposites attract."

**~A~**

Phillips watched recognition sweep over the face of his one-time street brother. Damon Pope. That's all Jerome talked about on their travels from that fateful night in Kentucky until they reached Detroit – his cousin Damon who was tight with his crew the Cash Flow Po$$e and how he could get them in. And being family didn't entitle Jerome to any special treatment and, to Phillips, even less. They had to endure some gruesome trials to prove their worth, both in trust and blood. And for almost four years he and Jerome had each other's backs no matter what went down. So when a drug exchange had gone bad leaving Damon with a near-fatal gunshot wound, there wasn't any question who was going to be the one to avenge him. But Jerome wouldn't go it alone – Phillips was right there by his side, even when Jerome bled to death all over him when all hell broke loose.

And that was the only ace Phillips had up his sleeve now.

"Does it, Day?"

"Small town north of Stockton. Why?"

"Because that's where the Sons of Anarchy charter is. Am I getting warmer."

Pope looked a bit comfortable but never lost composure. "What are you getting at,EZ?"

"Had a hit and run there yesterday. Young lady was injured quite badly by a person – or persons – driving a black SUV."

"Oh, I see," Pope snided. "Black SUV equals black gang, huh? You really _are_ on the other side."

Phillips walked a bit closer and narrowed his eyes. "Don't pull an 'Uncle Tom' attitude with me. As I understand it, your Niner boys favor that make and model."

"So you just assumed it was one of them?"

From his pocket, Phillips retrieved a piece of paper and handed it to Pope. "You tell me. That was left on the front seat of the young lady's car after she was hit. Witness saw the SUV halt by her car before taking off. Must've tossed this inside." Pope read the five words on the paper then glanced up – unable to find any words. "I'll take your silence as a confirmation of some sort."

Pope shoved the paper back at Phillips. "Take it how you want it."

"Maybe I should just be straight with you."

"Yeah," Pope shot back. "Maybe you should. My time is short and I've got a daughter to bury."

"Then listen to me so no one else has to be. Truth is – I think these Niners hit that young woman yesterday – a young woman who belongs to that very same motorcycle club. She's not only an old lady, but the daughter of the president which, somehow, the Niners found out. Their leader was at the MC wedding last weekend – a LaRoy Wayne. Had your Veronica with him. From what I was told by the MC, LaRoy took some business he had with them off the table on a temporary basis. One week later, Veronica's dead – by a biker who jumped the curb where she was dining with friends, causing her to fall through a plate glass window. LaRoy puts two and two together and thought it was the Sons. Well, he was right – it _was_ a Son that night, but Veronica wasn't targeted as some kind of revenge. It was an accident. He took off on his bike before he even knew she lost her footing and fell through the glass. And because they didn't have all the facts – not to mention a specific ID on the biker – the next best route was taken – targeting the MC president's daughter," Phillips holds up the paper, "and leaves this note as a message. Now – what do you say to that?"

Turning away, Pope walked to the window and looked out as MacArthur Boulevard stared back at him. He then shook his head. "What do you want me to say?"

"Did you order this hit?"

Taking a deep breath, Pope turned around. "If I did?"

Phillips had to play it close to the vest. Right now, he couldn't be a cop. He had to be EZ. "I understand about revenge, Day. All too well. You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Pope opened and closed his right hand before putting it to his side. "Got the reminder right here from where they yanked out three bullets. I should've died."

"Even if you did, Jerome still would've avenged you. You were his only blood family."

Pope walked backwards until he hit the edge of his desk and sat upon it. "So, what do you we do here? You gonna arrest me, Officer Phillips?"

Phillips chuckled. "Even if I wanted to I'm out of my jurisdiction. I'm not here on behalf of the MC. I'm here for Charming. I know you had a right to avenge Veronica, but the young lady who was hit - her old man's gonna want blood for it. She was targeted because it was thought Veronica was purposefully executed. It was an accident. I know it. The paper reported it as such. And I think you know it too. Now, I can let you go and figure out the biker responsible, but all that's gonna do is start a vicious circle. Sons in Oakland, Niners in Charming. My town is too fragile to handle a gang war and this town has seen enough violence as it is. If the Sons can agree not to seek revenge for the hit and run then you agree not to handle who was really responsible."

Pope looked as if he didn't like a word he was hearing. "I have every right to go back and finish the job."

"And so does that young lady's old man. Your daughter's death was an accident, whereas she was almost killed based upon incorrect facts."

Dropping his head, Pope pushed away from his desk and walked back to the window, as if seeking some kind of answer from the long stretch of highway in the distance. "You stayed with him, EZ. Even though you knew those guys could've come back to finish you off, you stayed by Jerome's side while he bled out – so he wouldn't die alone." Pope turned from the window, a mist forming in his eyes. "You always had his back."

"And he had mine," Phillips retorted.

Thinking a few moments more, Pope finally spoke. "Fine. What's done is done. They keep their end, we'll keep ours." He then went over to Phillips. "For you, EZ. I'm only doing this for you. Because of Jerome, for what you did, I'll swallow this. But – that young lady's still alive. My Veronica's lying in a casket in the basement of a funeral home right now. I need a bit more recompense."

Phillips swallowed hard, not knowing what the price would be. "Go ahead."

"You go back to Charming and tell that MC that whatever business the Niners put on temporary hold with them is now off the table _– for good._ I see one of their bikes or patches in Oakland ever again all bets are off. Charming just won't be hosting a gang war – it'll go up in smoke. Do I make myself clear?"

With no choice but to accept, Phillips nodded. "I'll tell them."

**~/~**

**Yes, everything will come to blows next chapter! **


	6. Chapter 6

**One more after this to wrap everything up. Without spoiling anything from the premier last night, all I gotta say is that my Damon Pope is a pussycat compared to what I saw last night and that Amanda is damn lucky compared to what could've happened to her. YIKES!**

**Enjoy!**

**Chapter 6**

That ticking clocked toyed with him again. Not counting down the time left on Clay's hands, but the outcome between Lieutenant Phillip's meeting with Damon Pope. The former seemed as if the minutes and hours were melting away whereas the latter felt as if time was standing still.

There wasn't anything Tig could do to speed up the process nor to occupy his mind. The clubhouse, the garage even the parking lot made him feel like the walls were closing in and choking him. Whatever the outcome, the club had to take a hit in some form. If Pope winds up laughing Phillips right out of Oakland and comes gunning for the Sons, Charming could wind up being stained red. If it went the other way, a brother was going to have to swallow an enormous slice of pride in order to keep peace. All of this hinged upon a cop he still didn't like or trust no matter no matter the size of the hornet's nest he pulled out of their asses with the Franklin Haas/Officer Jack Pritchard situation. And it was going down right at this very moment. All because of Friday night. Because of him. Because of his actions.

No – because of his _reaction_.

If he had gone back. If he had come clean the next morning when Happy saw the dent in his bike. If he had spoken up at the table when Juice read the police report_. Ifs, ifs, ifs. _They weren't going to bring Veronica Pope back from the dead nor erase Amanda's near-fatal injuries. And when he finally decided to take responsibility and speak up, it was too late. Even though Clay's focus was on protecting the club, he knew he was disappointed in him, whereas Jax made no effort to hide his disgust.

He tried relaxing on the couch, took a stab at pool, looked for something to eat, downed a shot or two and went through almost a half pack of cigarettes – watching most of them just burn down to his fingers. The place was quiet and practically empty. The double doors to church were slightly open revealing Clay sitting alone at the head, most likely wondering how much longer he had in that seat. Jax had went back to work in the garage, Maniac was pumping iron in back, Opie and Chibs accompanied Bobby to Sutter Creek to help get their asses in gear on setting up security at the leather factory, Juice was most likely whacking weeds, fixing shutters and hanging flower boxes and the prospects were doing what they do best and staying unseen and unheard.

And then there was Hap – no doubt still at his wife's hospital bedside making a mental list of what he planned to do to the person responsible. Of all his missing brothers, he was the one he was both anxious and dreading to see the most. He already spilled his truth to Clay and Jax and got an earful of shit. Hap would most likely feed it to him once he found out.

Sliding another smoke from the pack, he stepped out of the clubhouse into early afternoon sun. In the lot, he saw the kid sitting on the ground next to a junk bike – an array of tools and parts spread out around him while Tank majestically sat off to the side taking it all in. Taking a hard drag and exhaling, Tig walked over to him. "What're you up to?"

Toby eyed the mess he made then looked at Tig. "Tryin' to fix this up."

"For what?"

"For me."

"_You?"_ Tig asked, pointing at him with his cigarette. "Oh, I get it. You think once you got a bike we'll beg ya to prospect."

Dropping his head, Toby picked up a tool. "That's not why."

"Yeah it is. Only reason you're still hangin' here. Think ya got the club's trust, helped us out, got yourself some ink and snagged the little redheaded cookie. Think you're hot shit now, huh? Think all this time you've been spendin' here's considered your 'hang-around' phase and that once you're up and ridin' we'll practically toss ya a prospect patch."

"I said that's not it!" Toby half-yelled, causing the dog to stand up on all fours and yelp.

"Watch your tone."

"Or what?" Toby scrambled to his feet. "You gonna kick my ass? You've been kickin' it since I got here. I've done everything I've been asked to do, didn't cause any trouble, kept my mouth shut, didn't give anyone shit, worked for free and didn't complain. I saw this in the storage shed and Bobby said I could have it. I just wanted somethin' I could put together with my own two hands. To put what I learned to use. To have something of my very own that I built. _That's_ why. But I ain't gonna lie. If you guys ever asked me to prospect, I'd say yes in a heartbeat."

Dropping the remains of his cigarette to the ground, Tig toed it with his boot and got as close as possible to the kid. He really should kick his ass just for having the audacity to talk to him that way. Hell, he didn't need a reason to beat on him. And if things were different, if he wasn't on eggshells himself, if he wasn't the main reason the club was teetering on the brink on a possible gang war infiltrating Charming, if he wasn't trying to acclimate _change_ into his already twisted repertoire, if he wasn't trying to get a certain little stiff-ass and her condescending take on him out of his mind he'd pound this little teenage putz right into the tar.

Instead, Tig stood there staring him down. Using his fists would be too easy and the fact Toby wasn't legally an adult would make Tig look like an even bigger prick than he was for beating on a minor. No, words were more effective right now. He never thought he'd be the kind of man to choose words over actions and just chalked it up to this change _permeating_ in the air. "Kid, you got no fuckin' idea what _this_," waving his hand around the parking lot, "is all about. This ain't fantasy camp. It ain't all ridin', getting' drunk, kickin' ass and nailin' pussy. It's hard, fuckin' shit. Commitment…loyalty – so deep you'd need at least another five years just to comprehend it."

_Hypocrit_ screamed in Tig's head no sooner than those words left his mouth. When it came to Clay, he meant every word times a hundred. But with Jax – he felt like he was going to have to learn them all over again. Still, this kid needed to get the stars out of his eyes.

Toby shrugged. "I know. I got this far. Got no family left. _This_," he held up his forearm which sported his _Family_ tattoo, "ain't just for show. I mean it. I'll do whatever."

Tig backed away – seeing a younger version of himself in Toby. Family shot to shit. Ex-wife who couldn't stomach him and a pair of daughters who had a better relationship with his wallet than with him. The club was all he had. The only thing in his life which remained loyal. The shit it dished out he willingly took because it was worth to him than any bitch. And if he wanted to keep this monogamous relationship with the club, he knew he had to take his own advice, suck it up and give that loyalty and commitment to Jax Teller someday.

He inched closer to Toby until they were nose to nose. "Be careful what you ask for, kid. You just may get it."

Backing away, he let the kid digest those words before he went back to work, until another distraction caught him. A set of pipes pulling in carrying Happy made him still before seeking the sanctity of the clubhouse.

Inside, Clay walked out of church, closed cell in his hand. "That was Phillips."

Tig stretched himself tall, preparing for the worse. "And?"

Footsteps walking in caught Clay's attention. "Hey. What're you doin' here?"

Tugging his gloves off, Happy dropped them on the table after he walked in with Tank loyally in tow. "Went home to shower and change clothes. She's got a train of company today. Juice brought Eve. Gemma's there with Phil. Daisy."

Tig felt Clay's mirthy stare on him. So what? So fuckin' what? Daisy went to visit Amanda at the hospital. Why does everyone feel a need to look at him when her name is dropped like they've got some kind of thing going on. She's nothing to him. Just some chick who helped him out, gave him aggots over it and flung shit at him before putting her in line by kissing her senseless. And just like any bitch she gave in and shut up. Case closed and over, he convinced himself.

"How is she?" Clay asked

Happy rubbed his face then eyed his four-legged shadow. "Worried about the damn dog."

"Women," Clay snorted.

From the garage, Jax walked in – making Tig fight not to roll his eyes. No doubt the little prince high-tailed it over here as soon as he saw Hap pull up. He wasn't going to pass up a front row seat for this. "We know anythin' yet?" he asked.

This was it. The shit wasn't just going to hit the fan – it was gonna kick back and splatter all over the walls. "Phillips just called. On his way back."

Happy took a seat whereas Jax kicked back against the bar. "From where."

"Meetin' with Pope."

Sitting forward on the edge of the chair, Happy's eyes flashed dark as his face contorted. "_What?"_

The next ten minutes found Clay relaying the entire chain of events which led to Phillips decision which the club had absolutely no say in. But he left out the most important part – what escalated all of this. Tig knew Clay was leaving that honor up to him. And from the looks of Hap's face, he wasn't taking this resolution well. "You sayin' we gotta eat it? _I_ gotta eat it?" Standing up so fast the chair fell over, Happy's overall stance made even his brother's take a step back – including the dog. "No. No way. _No ….fuckin'…. way_ ". He enunciated each word through gritted teeth. "We didn't kill Pope's daughter. We had _nothin'_ to do with it!"

Tig felt the words bubble in his throat before he finally let them escape. "Yeah, bro. We did." A condescending look from Jax forced Tig to revise that statement. "_I _did."

Happy swung his eyes – angry, hot and liquid black – over to Tig. "What'ya mean?"

"I mean," Tig started, swallowing spit which wasn't there to moisten his throat. "I did it. It was me. I was the rider."

Step by slow step, Happy walked towards him, his head cocked to one side. "Saturday mornin' when you pulled in. Said you were at some bar. Had the dent in your fender. Was that…..?"

Tig just nodded before Happy could finish. "Yeah. It was."

"You lied to me?"

"I didn't lie. You asked where I was. That was the truth. Never said where the dent came from."

"At the table Monday," Happy cut in. "When Juice read the report. You knew, didn't ya?"

Again, Tig nodded. "Yeah."

"And you said nothing?"

This time, he shook his head. "No. I swear, Hap – I never thought they'd come up with some way to pin it on us."

Quiet seconds which seemed like an eternity passed before Happy found some words. "But they did. They didn't know which one of us to hit, so they went after my ol' lady."

"Hap, I'm…"

"No!" Like a trapped animal, Happy frantically paced back and forth, Tank giving up trying to keep up with him. Tig never moved, knowing he had no right to do or say anything. He'd said enough. He just admitted the foolishness of his reaction to his brother which had resulted in his wife getting slammed by an SUV.

Finally he halted, turning to his president. "I can't, Clay. I can't just do nothin'."

"Brother, I know that. But we got no choice."

"Always a choice."

"This incident didn't just dig us deep. Pope said your ol' lady's still alive. His daughter ain't. For that, he shoveled one last pile of dirt on top of us by exacting one extra pound of flesh. Gonna instruct the Niners that their temporary arrangement is now off the table for good."

"What?" Jax asked ludicrously. "That's almost 40% of our gun revenue."

"Yeah, no shit," Clay said.

Tig turned to Jax. "Well, you wanted out of guns anyway, right?"

Jax pushed away from the bar. "First of all, you're in no position to talk shit to me. Second, it's gotta be phased out – not pulled out from under us."

Happy looked from Clay to Jax. "What does that have to do with this sitch?"

Clay inhaled deeply, looking over at Jax to answer. "Gonna have to take the deal Pope offered. Our gun sales goin' down only means we've got to concentrate on the other ventures. If we bring a gang war here where we're tryin' to establish the legit stuff, we're gonna be sunk financially. We gotta make this other stuff work to survive. I'm sorry, brother. I can't let you do anything. For the club's sake."

The look of pure rage and disgust colored Happy's face as he stood there, fuming, his eyes liquid black, hot and extremely pissed. Those eyes scanned the three other men as both hands twitched at his side. Dragging fingers roughly over his head, he stormed out of the club, Tank close on his heels before Clay called out for the dog to stay.

It didn't take Tig long to figure out what had to be done. He knew what would happen once he walked out there to confront his brother who was just ordered not to seek vengeance for his old lady's hit. It was a blow to his manhood, a disrespect to his position as a Son and a sense of failure to protect what's his. He made his way to the door before Clay's voice stopped him. "I wouldn't."

"I gotta," Tig quickly replied before disappearing outside.

His near-dead right hand in a fist, Clay sat on one of the wooden chairs before bringing it down upon the table next to it, gritting back a seething cry of pain which brought out an anguished sound from the dog who no doubt sensed it. Slowly he inched over towards Clay, sniffing his other hand, picking up a scent of something which wasn't right before offering a comforting lick or two.

"That wasn't smart," Jax told him.

"Don't matter," Clay replied, staring at the floor while allowing the dog to lap his hand. "Ain't gonna make 'em worse and sure as hell nothin's gonna make 'em better." He slowly glanced up at Jax. "Ain't no use seein' a doctor. This is it. It's done."

Jax nodded. "Meanin'?"

"Get ready."

**~A~**

It was dejavu all over again. Confronting Opie about what really happened to Donna and taking the punishment he dished out. The sum of his mistakes, actions and, worst of all, reactions were closing in on him. This was just one of many – another brother who had to suffer because of his snap decisions. He started on a silent quest for change a month ago – apologizing to Daisy for the incident at the garage, the way he treated her, the way he talked to her. But a mere "Sorry" didn't cut it. It didn't cut it with her and it sure as hell wasn't going to cut it here. Nothing short of a bullet between his eyes would no doubt satisfy Happy whose back was to him, looking across the lot as he watched Toby work on his bike.

"Bro?" He started out quiet, his voice soft and as genuinely contrite as he could make it. But Happy didn't turn around. Didn't acknowledge him. Just continued to watch the kid trying to connect parts to build himself a bike so he could maybe one day begin a journey which Tig himself felt as if he was teetering on the tail end of. "Hey….Hap." He walked closer to where he was practically behind him, his presence still going unnoticed. "Talk to me."

And like that Tig felt the pain he knew he'd feel, the impact he absolutely deserved and the possible absolution for what he'd done to come afterwards when Happy spun around, connecting his ringed fist into Tig's face. And it didn't stop there. Another. And another. And still another, the mayhem causing Toby to jump up from the ground and watch from a safe distance with curiosity and fear. And with each blow, with the crackling of cartilage and bone, with the sputtering of blood from his nose and mouth, Tig hoped that atonement was somehow taking place. Happy's left fist came up to connect – his wedding ring connecting with Tig's temple causing flashing light to crackle behind his eyes. In those flashes of light he saw Donna's bullet riddled head slumped against the steering wheel, those two burned Mexican women at the Bluebird sight, the body of Gemma's father's caregiver before she was dissolved to nothingness. He imagined Veronica Pope lying among shards of glass, her head split open as well as that SUV pummeling into Amanda's body. And somewhere in his addled head he pictured Daisy – who became a sort of periodic constant in his life who served as some kind of conscious. He had told her to 'stay good' – as a way for him to at least know he had the restraint not to poison another woman. But it would take that kind of goodness to someday turn around the person he had been fashioned into over the years.

Slumped to the ground, his bloodied face dripped upon the pavement below as Happy found some semblance of restraint to back off. His own fist split and raw, his chest heaved from the exertion as short bursts of hot air escaped his nostrils like a bull with his eyes on a red flag. "What do I do, Tig?" he asked him. "What do I tell my 'ol lady, huh? How the hell do I tell her I can't right this wrong?"

He had no right to speak, but the least he could do was answer his brother whose wife was miraculously alive after the hit she took. If that was one saving grace on his side, he'd take it. A good chunk of their gun revenue was now lost because of him along with the club and his enraged brother having to eat the shit dished out because of it. All because of him. All because of his decision to fall prey to reaction.

He shook his head as blood continued to form tiny droplets on the ground from which he stared at. "Tell her the truth, bro. That it was my fault. All my fault. And that…."this time it came from a heart he was sure he didn't have, "…..that I'm sorry." Amid the blood, bruises and cuts, tears formed in his vivid blue eyes causing a welcoming sting which only served to prove he was still alive. "I'm so very sorry."

He never meant anything more at the moment than those four words.


	7. Epilogue

**Thank you all for indulging me in this little bridge story. Will I take it past this? Hmm, who knows? Right now I have to climb back into my 'work' hole, but I did leave it open at the end. WIDE open! [grin]**

**You've all been great and your support is humbling. **

**Epilogue**

**Three Weeks Later**

**9/11/12**

The irony of this day in comparison to what transpired on its anniversary eleven years ago was hard to ignore. The stepping down of a long-time president which would usher in a change in the structure within the club still couldn't quite compare to the bringing down of two buildings which forever changed the country.

"Coffee?"

Looking up from the distressed leather couch, Amanda reached for the cup in Gemma's outstretched hand. "Thanks." She loved taking that first sip of a fresh brew – feeling the soothing warmth trickle all the way down followed that an inward sigh of contentment which always accompanied the feeling.

Resting the cup on the arm rest, her still-bandaged left hand absentmindedly stroked Tank's head perched upon her lap while the rest of his large body stretched across the remainder of the couch. Gemma smirked as she took the adjacent chair. "You may have to have him surgically removed."

Smiling, Amanda continued to stroke the ginger-colored short hairs. "Been like this since I got home from the hospital."

"He know's something wasn't right," Gemma said. "Same he was with Clay – licking his hands. He knows."

Her fingers went from the top of the dog's head and down his spine as far as her arm reached. "Couple nights ago Hap came back late. Woke up and found him stretched out on the living room floor – the dog pretty much resting his head on top of him like this. Helps him…..unwind before coming to bed."

Putting down the coffee, Gemma went to light up. "Must've been a rough night."

"Miles," was all Amanda said.

"Ah."

Gemma didn't have to say anything more as it was pretty much understood. Since Hap couldn't couldn't get the vengence he wanted, he took what he was able to get. Prior to Lieutenant Phillips leaving his meeting with Pope, he casually asked how he knew Amanda's paternity. When Pope repeated what LaRoy had overheard at Jax's wedding, both Miles and Phil were unassumingly questioned as to who they interacted with that day. While Phil admitted to keeping near his own charter, Miles mentioned a prospect from Seattle he shot the shit with - eventually admitted to shutting him up when he made the assumption about her being Clay's old lady – before Miles corrected him.

It was enough for Clay to hear and all Hap needed. At the end of the day, when the interior and exterior activities of the club wound down, when the mechanics, hangarounds and croweaters all found their way out to where it was just the members remaining, Hap made sure Miles would never shoot his mouth off again. His prospect cut stripped and his bike confiscated, Miles was then booted out of the back of the van at the emergency room exit of an out-of-town hospital – a rinsed-out pickle jar containing his severed tongue duct-taped to his bound wrists.

That Aztec machete of his was really coming in handy lately!

He made Amanda aware of the gory details upon his return which had sent a chill down her spine, but not so much as the absolute picture of calm when her husband finally came to bed that night.

Eyes glanced over at the closed double doors which housed the men of the club about to undergo a change that would either strengthen its forces with a new regime or cause it to collapse. "Been almost an hour."

Gemma sipped her own coffee then peered over at the closed doors herself. "Too quiet – considering."

"Don't think there's going to be too many cheers over a guy slowly losing the use of his hands."

Gemma cocked her head. "Clay's not the only one who's lost."

Even with her cemented status, Amanda never played the step-daughter card with Gemma. What she knew – what she was allowed to know – came from her old man and him alone. "That doesn't sound good."

"You'll find out soon enough."

Behind the bar, Chucky wiped down the woodwork while Rat restocked the shelves. The clinking of glass echoed throughout the eerie quiet of the clubhouse until rounds of cheers and claps behind the doors indicated activity.

"Finally," Gemma blew out.

"Gamma!"

Into the center of it all, Abel ran in through the door and straight for Gemma, followed by Tara holding Thomas in his carrier. Scooping up her eldest grandson, Gemma was oblivious to her replacement on the throne as Tara placed the carrier on the coffee table and looked over by the doors. "They still in there?"

"Yeah," Amanda replied, scooting out from under Tank's head and going for Thomas. Reaching in, she unbuckled the safety belt then lifted him out. "Just heard the first sounds of life." Another round of yells, cheers and claps resounded no sooner than Amanda said that.

"Made it just in time," Gemma told Tara with an admonishing tone.

"Wanted to get them after I got off shift," Tara defended.

"I could've gotten them," Gemma shot back.

"I wanted us to come in together."

Amanda eyed the verbal exchange between SAMCRO's queen-to-be and her predecessor – an air of tension forming between them. It was obvious Clay wasn't the only one stepping down tonight – his wife had to also follow suit.

The rolling back of chairs from behind the doors followed by a very large cheer told the ladies it was done. The shift in power. The changing of the guard. When those doors opened, a new king would walk out and take his rightful place while the man he replaced would be left to wait out as much time as his hands allowed him with dignity and respect. With what transpired between the two ladies before her made Amanda think Tara wouldn't offer Gemma the same compassion.

"Gimme," Gemma told Amanda, holding out her arm to take Thomas after putting Abel down.

"It's okay – I got him."

Gemma wouldn't take no for an answer and took her younger grandson. "Trust me – you're gonna needs your hands for something else."

Exuberant men began to file out of church one-by-one followed by a cloud of cigarette and cigar smoke. Clay was the first one out, approaching his wife for comfort – but not before giving Amanda what seemed to be an encouraging nod. What for, she had no idea.

She went over to take a seat by the bar, waiting for her husband's turn to come out as a female with heavily inked skin, spiky blood-red hair and nails to match stood dutifully behind it with a row of shot glasses lined up to be filled. Chucky then came up behind her and laid something else on the bar she couldn't quite make out.

Through the door the rest of their families made it just in time. Lyla entered with with her and Opie's kids as Eve followed close behind – Henry making a mad dash towards Juice as soon as he emerged. Rather than go and greet them, she decided to stay where she was. It was their time with their men, with their families as they privately celebrated the change in the club, the new ranks that came with it and, hopefully, some peace and restoration because of it.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a flash of leather and wild hair move across the room towards the door, turning just in time to see Tig walk out of the clubhouse. Even after what had transpired, after the truth Hap had filled her in on, she would've thought Tig would remain behind to celebrate with his brothers. But to play devil's advocate, the weight of what he had done must still be heavy on his shoulders.

Three weeks ago he had come to see her the day she was discharged from the hospital – Happy in tow to supervise it. She never remembered someone apologizing as profusely for something as Tig did that day. And although his reaction to the entire situation could've killed her, it didn't. It was without question she'd forgive him as she couldn't kick someone while they were down – especially after Hap nearly rearranged his face.

But something about the urgency in his stride made her think he needed to get away and didn't pay it any more mind when her iPhone beeped indicating a text. Pulling it from her purse she read it:

'_**Up for lunch tomorrow? I have some news – Daisy'**_

Stuck in a hospital for a week, then cooped up at home for another made Amanda anxious to get out and back into routine. She'd spent the last week going over what went on at the store with Lyla while she was incapacitated and had finally caught up with orders, stock, scheduling and having 12-year old Ellie school her in the art of social media. She was now ready for some time with her only non-club related friend and catch up on some drama which didn't involve guns, retaliation or severed body parts.

Seeing Hap finally emerge from the room, Amanda quickly texted back. _**"Sure – how about 1pm? Silver Leaf Café?'**_

As if Daisy was waiting by her phone for an answer, she characteristically texted back with promptness and good grammar. _**'Perfect. I shall see you then.'**_

"Who ya textin'?"

Holding her phone up, Amanda stared up at her husband who had been overly concerned and protective since the hit and run. "Daisy. Wants to have lunch tomorrow."

"Don't overdo it, A."

"I won't."

"Keep your eyes everywhere and your gun unlocked. Call me when you get there and when you're leavin'. Understood?"

Tank was less of a watchdog than her old man was. But, considering what happened three weeks ago, she couldn't blame him. She could've been killed and he knew it. But within his guarded state, she noticed something different about him right now. The look on his face, the glint in those terrifying dark eyes, the way he stood taller if it were possible. Through the throng of men, past his dog staring up with admiration before getting lost in the chaos, she had nodded her agreement before his hands braced the sides of her face and gave her a kiss that felt and tasted as different as he was acting.

"Well?" she asked after their lips parted.

"Done deal," he said. "Jax's in. Bobby got V.P. Named Juice Secretary."

"Bobby's V.P.? But I thought Opie would…."

"They talked," he said. "It's cool between 'em. Ope's loyal, but Jax needs experience in the number two spot. Bobby's it."

Amanda had to agree. Bobby would be the perfect grizzled ying to Jax's upstart yang.

"Patched Phil in."

"Finally," she huffed out.

He shrugged unaffectedly. "Had to make the cut – no pun intended. Ain't no guarantee even after probation. But he earned it.

"I love my new hometown!"

That was shouted out by Maniac – two patches held between his fingers along with a whiskey shot, his other arm around a ready and willing blonde.

"Maniac put his transfer in," he continued. "Voted him in Redwood. Gonna need an extra body once Clay has to step aside for good." Reaching across her body, he stretched his arm down the bar to take the offered shot Chucky slid down. Throwing it down his throat, he waved Chucky back then pointed down the end of the bar. "Bring me one."

Amanda thought he meant another shot. Instead, Chucky scooped up between his two lone fingers what he had placed on the bar earlier which she couldn't make out. As he got closer, she saw it was a threaded needle as he handed it to her. "What?" she asked, taking it.

Slowly and fluidly, Hap removed his cut, carefully folded it and placed it on top of the bar – right side facing up. From his pocket, he pulled something out and placed it above his _Unholy Ones _patch - her eyes widening when he backed away, revealing the _Sgt. At Arms_ patch. "It's your honor, girl. Sew it on."

"_You?"_ she quietly asked before looking towards the door, remembering Tig leaving earlier. "But, Tig…"

"….stepped down on his own," he filled in. "Jax would've stripped it if he didn't. Don't worry, A. It's all good."

Her fingers reached for the sergeant's patch, rubbing the material between her fingers. "What does this mean?"

"For you, mean's you're an officer's ol' lady now. For me – we'll talk about that later. Now, get it on there, girl."

With somewhat shaky hands, Amanda bit her lip as the steel needle pierced the leather material – pulling the black thread through to initially attach the right corner of the patch, making it become part of the leather, the way the leather was part of him, the way he was a part of her.

The way both of them were now part of a picture bigger than both of them.

**~A~**

_Three Hours Earlier_

_The steel tip of the blade pricked the skin of Tig's finger as he carefully ran it under his nail. Pressing harder, he bit his lip over the pain, allowing it to replace what he was about to do. He had to do it willingly. Pride and love for his club was all he had which was of worth to him. The mistakes he had made caused a world a hurt for those around him – brothers he loved dearly. But if he couldn't live up to the rank he would now forfeit, he would put it all on the line as a regular, patched member. Whereas tragedy came from his reactions, his atonement for them would come from action. His own brand of change. But in order to get, he had to give up._

_Pulling the knife away, he pushed back on the barstool and slid his cut off. The blade's tip now worked nipping away at the shards of thread which affixed his Sgt. At Arms patch to the leather which was his way of life. The patch now between his fingers, he headed towards the cracked-open door to church where Clay sat alone at the head one last time._

"_What're you up to, darlin'?" Gemma's voice appeared from where she had exited the kitchen._

_He looked at the woman whom he loved as much as the man she was married to – one he would give his life up for. And he still would. Not just for her, but any member of this MC family. It was the sacrifice of the cut. The path of the life he chose. A way to find redemption for his reactions._

_Holding the patch up to inspect it, he glanced over at her. "Somethin' I gotta do." That's all he could say, that pride of his momentarily wounded as his self-demotion felt like weakness. But he knew there was no other out. This had to be done or it would be done for him. Knocking on the open door, Clay looked up from where he was enjoying his last cigar from that spot. "Got a minute?"_

_Clay nodded him in. "What's on your mind, brother?"_

_What wasn't on Tig's mind. It was nothing but a whirlwind of shit built up over the years which he would begin to purge with this first, true action. Placing the patch on the redwood, his eyes focused on the sinister, carved reaper in its middle as they couldn't look at the man sitting at its head. "Might as well do this now. Ain't gonne sit here and have it stripped in front of everyone."_

_Still not looking at Clay he turned for the door before halting. "It should go to Hap. Night we went to the Bastard's clubhouse, he stood right in front of that gun aimed at Jax. He'll do right by 'im. He'll have his back."_

_Before Clay could acknowledge him, he walked out._

Dusk blended into full-blown night as Tig kicked into gear outside the city limits. Walking out probably wasn't the best thing to do, but he needed the air, needed to feel it slice his face and remind him he was alive as well as remind him of those who had died unnecessarily because of him. Stepping down from rank was just the beginning – it would take a lot more effort to bring about the change in him needed to survive under Jax Teller's reign of legitimacy. And with the Niners off their preferred buyer's list for good because of him, the club needed to be on their best behavior in this town if they were going to venture into legitimate business.

The ride was invigorating, but doing nothing to assuage what ate at him. Going back to be around those who knew him too well, who could judge him on his past was not an option right now and he could only ride solo for so long without longing for that need to stop, to rest, to allow the completeness of the day segue into a restful and satisfying night. Soon it would come, but a strong pull towards something that rankled him caused him to turn around. Suddenly, the road wasn't cutting it, the night air wasn't erasing the last hour and his thoughts wouldn't stop taunting him. He needed something. Somewhere he could go to chill, where he could be himself and not care what they thought.

And he _really_ didn't care what _she_ thought.

Pulling back down that familiar street, the sight of the pale blue Jaguar beckoned him. He didn't need an invitation nor cared it was ten o'clock at night. All he knew was that he was disgusted enough with himself to wind up here and that the absence of a certain silver Lexus was practically karma.

Parking on the street, he dismounted and walked up the driveway until he reached the set of concrete steps leading to the kitchen door. Ramming his fist against it, he leaned back against the rail until a light flickered on and the sound of bare feet shuffling across linoleum got closer. "Who's there?"

He answered the female voice by coming into view and looking in through the kitchen door window. He couldn't hear Daisy suck her breath in at the sight of him, but knew by her facial expression that he was the last person she intended to see. "What do you want?"

"Can I come in?"

"What?" she was oblivious. "Do you know what time it is? Why are you here?"

His old self wouldn't get himself anywhere right now. It was time to call upon that change. "Daze, please. Open up. I know you're alone."

"How do you know that?"

"The little douche's car ain't here."

He saw hands go on her hips through the paned windows of the door – hips which were far too narrow on a body much too slender. So why he felt a need to come here and pester her at ten p.m. was beyond him. Maybe he needed further assurance of his self-loathing from someone who wasn't club related. Yeah, Daisy despised him, but it was just what she knew on the surface. She didn't know _him_ – what he had done and the wrath it caused. Maybe he needed to start all over and re-apologize to her. Maybe he hoped to see something in her eyes which indicated he wasn't as much of a prick as she most likely thought.

Again, why he cared he had no idea.

"Tig, you shouldn't be here. I don't know why…."

"Daisy." His pleading voice nauseated him. "Just…..let me in."

A click of a lock and turn of a knob opened the door in front of him. What the paned windows hid, the soft glow of the lighting under the kitchen cabinets revealed. She must've been in bed because her hair – that damn mane of mahogany hair – spilled over both shoulders hiding those little tits in a beige camisole while those endless legs were more than on display in a pair of soft brown shorts. Arms crossed protectively across her body as if she felt his eyes inspect every inch of her. "Okay, you're in," she said. "Now what do you want?"

What _did_ he want? Why the hell _was_ he here? What was it about this little stiff-ass that made him turn around and seek her out when he should be swallowing his pride back at the clubhouse toasting his new president, VP and sergeant? She was nothing but some uppity chick full of self-righteousness who walked around in over-priced clothes with that little sloped nose in the air. She was everything he loathed about civilian women which is why he wondered why he didn't just stay at the club and have a crow eater or three lick his wounds. Maybe it was what she represented, what he wasn't used to, what he wasn't ever going to be – _good_. His pride just took a severe beating and maybe he was looking to get some of it back – by verbally bringing down some chick who really did nothing to him except point out his obvious flaws.

"I just…don't know. Out ridin'. Saw your street."

"And thought you'd just….drop in?" she finished for him. "Don't you know it's impolite to….."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, save it, doll," he cut her off with a wave of his hand. "Know all about it. Know what an asshole I am. I'm a rough, dirty, arrogant bastard. There. Saved ya the trouble of makin' a list."

Backing towards the kitchen table, Daisy just shook her head. "What's…..wrong?"

"Why?" he asked. "You care?"

"You're here. You obviously came here for a reason. Why I don't…."

"I told ya I was just ridin' around. Didn't plan this or anything."

"Okay," she gently conceded.

The tone of her voice was soothing somehow – not angry like she was a month ago when he showed up here on the run and threw stuff at him before ordering him out. But not before he snuck a taste of her. Remembering that, his eyes licked up that five foot nine inch body of hers, suddenly looking more appealing with so much skin exposed. "Why you alone?"

"Excuse me?"

"Aren't you and the douche co-habitatin' or somethin'?"

Her arms tightened around her body as if she could hide from his gaze. "No, we're not. Not yet at least."

"Oh? Ya plannin' on….." and then he stopped – stopped at the sight of something reflecting off her left hand in the light under the counter. Something he stared at for several moments before letting out a raucous laugh.

"What?" she asked. "What is wrong with you?"

"_Me_?" he shot back. "What the hell's wrong with _you_?"

Daisy shook her head in confusion. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"Really? How about you got damn bad taste in dudes? Or….bad judgement."

"I do not!" she emphatically stated.

"Oh yeah? Then what's that on your finger?"

Sucking in her breath, Daisy held her left hand out to admire the dazzling solitaire diamond. "It's an engagement ring."

"You ain't serious?"

"You have a problem with it?"

Tig shook his head, still chuckling. "Ain't my problem, sweetheart. You're the one who's gotta live with the little fairy."

Fiery hazel eyes narrowed as she took a bold step towards him. "Evan is _not_ a fairy!" she defended. "I can't believe you! You come here unannounced at night, bang on my door, beg me to let you in….

"Hey!" he shouted. "I don't beg!"

"Well, you did. I let you in – why I have no idea – thinking something was wrong or…I don't know. Then, of course, I should've known it was just to have some fun at my expense and insult my fiancé."

Tig snorted, enjoying watching her get herself in a twist. "Fiance," he snickered. "Yeah, fine. Whatever. Your choice. Hope those ladies hands of his don't make you forget he's a man."

Now she looked pissed. Really, really pissed. And he was loving it. It was just he needed right now to forget about the last several hours, several days, several weeks. She stepped right up to him, taking his hand in hers and inspecting it. "And I suppose fingernails caked with grease makes you more of a man than him?"

She was fine up until she touched him, until she took his hand and held it in her own and followed up by drilling those hazel eyes into his. That long mane of hair had shifted behind her shoulder, revealing a pair of nipples so hard they made his teeth ache. She challenged him, questioned his own manhood which was exactly the wrong thing to do considering how fragile it was at this moment. Bitch wanted to get up close and personal? He was gonna show her just how dangerous that decision was.

The hand in hers shifted to grab her wrist while his other hand came up the back of her neck – thick strands of hair wound through his fingers and got caught in his rings, causing her head to tilt back against the tension. "You got a bad habit of callin' me out, Daisy-doll. I don't like it."

She swallowed hard at his words. "I don't like you," she answered.

"Then we're even. Cuz I don't like you either."

"Then let go of me and leave." Her hand came up to release the tug he had on her hair. "Please. And don't come back. It's not….proper for you to be here. I'm engaged."

"Why?"

"What?"

"Why'd ya say yes? Only known 'im….what, couple of months?"

"It's none of your business."

"Indulge me. Why? Why you gonna marry some ass stiffer than yours with hands like a pussy?" He punctuated that by running his own hand up and down her neck, making her feel the warmth and rough callouses, his entire body tightening at her response to it as she leaned back, her mouth parting and eyes languidly closing. "Yeah, that's what a man's hands are supposed to do to a bitch. I'm bettin' Evan don't do that to ya."

"Stop it," she breathlessly whispered.

Tig was unconvinced. "Ya mean it?"

"Y…y..yes. You have to. You have to go."

"I _have_ to? Or….ya _want_ me to?"

"Tig, don't. Just…"

"Answer me, doll. Ya _want_ me to go. Or ya wanna feel what you're gonna miss out on?"

Her eyes welled up as he knew she was royally messing with her shit. "Don't do this to me."

"Do what?"

"This."

"A'ight," he growled low. "How 'bout I do this instead?" Tugging her flush against him, his hands gripped her hips to hold her in place as his mouth came down on hers. And this time, she just didn't slide her arms up his neck, she threw them around it. "_Aw, shit Daze_," he mumbled against her as his hands moved wildly – over that tight ass of hers which fit right into his palms before roughly dragging them up her back. "Want me to leave?" he asked as he pulled away to find her neck. "Huh?"

She couldn't talk. All she did was shake her head while clinging to him, her mouth seeking his out again to capture it. And he chuckled low right into it. Hot little bitch wasn't such a stiff ass after all. Just needed a real man to bring it out.

That wasn't all he planned to do. Sliding his hands back down her lithe body, behind those silky thighs until they reached the back of her knees he lifted her – wrapping those endless legs around his waist. He walked them both out of the kitchen towards the hallway.

"No!" she frantically whispered in his mouth. "Not…..not the bed. Anywhere but the bed."

So she was having a guilt trip, but it didn't stop her from grinding against him. One thing was for certain, he didn't need a bed to give a bitch a good, hard fuck. "Not a problem," he said, depositing her on the couch. "This what you want? This how you want it? Fucked on the couch by an outlaw with filthy hands?"

She didn't answer – didn't even nod. Just turned around from him on her knees to where her hands gripped the back of the couch. It was a bold invitation which caused him to rip at his belt . _"Ya little bitch_," he seethed as he unfastened himself. He then lifted her bottom off the couch and tore her shorts down, exposing that ass and pink pussy ready and waiting. His hands actually trembled as they pulled on a condom before gripping her hips, pulling her back as he prepared to enter her. Slow…slow at first – until he got all the way in, then pulled out halfway in one fluid motion, the grip she had on him making him lose his mind.

"_Tig!"_ His name was a whimper of pleasurable pain which caused him to recall seeing her just like this in that movie. On her knees, throwing her head back and getting it from behind. _"Go back. Go back in. Don't. Don't stop."_

Something about a bitch begging for it did something to a man's ego. And right now, Tig's was in serious need of restoration. Pulling her back, he yanked her camisole off so those dirty hands of his could find those little tits – barely filling his palm as his fingers pinched those taut nipples hard, causing her to literally scream. All it did was made him pick up the pace, pounding harder and harder from behind, that gorgeous hair of hers spilling down her back, that slender body picking up a slight sheen of sweat from her exertion before she let out a sound that told him she just had the orgasm of a lifetime.

And he knew it – feeling her pulse all around him just enough before he let go himself. And with that came the feeling which always comes after – the coming down, the realization, the satisfaction. And for Daisy, most likely regret.

Pulling out, he took care of himself before refastening his pants and belt as Daisy curled her long, naked body against the couch, running her left hand through her disheveled hair – a piece of it getting caught in her diamond. It was that snagging irony that made her look at him – too humiliated to do so, but unable to look away. "Oh my God," she whispered. "What…..what did we do?"

Zipped, buckled and fastened, Tig reached down and moved her hair aside before taking her left hand. He bent over and fingered her diamond. "I'm guessin' you got some thinkin' to do before sayin' '_I Do'_."

**The End (for now!)**


End file.
